


Somehow I'll Return Again to You

by TooManyBattles (Skarabrae_stone)



Series: The Jolene Series [3]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Peggy Carter, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The First Avenger, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:01:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27719915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skarabrae_stone/pseuds/TooManyBattles
Summary: “I know,” Peggy says, and takes a deep breath. Now or never, she thinks, and hopes to God she’s making the right choice. If she’s wrong… if Bucky is dead… then she’ll be raising Steve’s hopes for nothing. “Steve, there’s something I need to tell you.”Bucky falls, but Peggy suspects he has a version of the super serum. While Steve undertakes a final mission to destroy HYDRA once and for all, Peggy sets out on a mission of her own: to find Bucky, and, if possible, bring him home.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Peggy Carter, James "Bucky" Barnes/Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Series: The Jolene Series [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1379542
Comments: 43
Kudos: 61





	1. Out There Somewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This starts directly after the train scene in Captain America: The First Avenger, so warnings for... all of That.

_I know you're out there somewhere_

_Somewhere, somewhere_

_I know you're out there somewhere_

_Somewhere you can hear my voice_

_I know I'll find you somehow_

_Somehow, somehow_

_I know I'll find you somehow_

_And somehow I'll return again to you_

_\--"I Know You're Out There Somewhere", The Moody Blues_

“It’s getting close to sunset,” says Private Sion Davies, glancing uneasily at the sky. “They should've been back by now, don’t you think?”

Peggy pauses in packing up her tent to give the western horizon a calculating look. “We’ve still at least an hour before sunset,” she says. “They’ve got time.”

“But if they don’t come back by then—” the agent persists.

“Then we’ll look for them,” she answers firmly. “But it won’t come to that. You know how St—Rogers is. Always right down to the wire.” As the words leave her, she realizes that Davies probably _doesn’t_ know how Steve is—though he’s worked with _her_ before, this is his first mission with the Howling Commandos.

“It’ll be alright,” she adds, shoving down the knot of anxiety in her chest. “You’ll see.”

It’s not Steve she’s worried about on this mission—it’s Bucky. The Commandos left yesterday to intercept a train heading from Germany to Schmidt’s stronghold somewhere in the Austrian Alps—a train on which Arnim Zola is reported to be a passenger. And while Bucky would never agree to sit out a mission, Peggy knows that he’s terrified to face Zola again; Bucky might try to put up a brave front, but he can’t hide how often Zola stars in his nightmares, not when Steve and Peggy both share his bed.

Even without Bucky’s history, the mission was expected to be difficult: the Howlies and a second group of SSR agents were to set up a zipline above the railroad tracks, with Steve’s team using the line to board the train while the second group set explosives along the track, which they’d set off once the train went past. Team Delta returned an hour ago; Steve’s group, Team Charlie, need to be back before sunset, so the whole group can fly out under cover of darkness.

Peggy’s been listening for the locomotive for some time now, despite the fact that the train tracks are a few miles above the village; it’s unlikely she’ll be able to hear it from this distance.

As if in answer to her thoughts, there’s a chorus of shouts from the direction of the village. She and Davies look at each other, then drop what they’re doing and hurry toward the sound.

Rounding the corner, she sees the small group, with Steve in the lead, and Zola’s balding head visible in their midst. The mission, then, must have been successful—but Peggy’s breath of relief freezes in her chest as she takes in the men’s slumped shoulders and slow steps. There is no victory in their postures, and the watching agents have gone silent and tense; her heart begins to beat painfully fast as she realizes what that must mean. Without thinking, she breaks into a run, and hears Davies speed up behind her.

As she gets closer, she can see the pallor of their faces, and the redness of their eyes; there are tear tracks dried on Steve’s cheeks, and something deep inside her knows what has happened, even as she refuses to think it.

“St—Captain Rogers,” she greets, skidding to a halt in the thin snow. “What—who did you—”

He raises his head, wordless, and she sees the answer in the desolation of his eyes. Steve cares about all of his team members, would be devastated to lose any of them, but there’s only one person that could make him look like his soul has been ripped in two. 

“Sergeant Barnes,” she says, through numb lips. “Is Sergeant Barnes…”

“He…” Steve starts hoarsely, then swallows and shakes his head.

“He fell,” Monty supplies in a choked voice.

For a moment, Peggy is rendered speechless; she feels as if a void has suddenly opened beneath her feet, and suddenly, nothing makes sense, nothing matters. Shock has her in its icy grip, and it is from a long way away that she hears herself say, “Davies, Benson, Smith, please take the prisoner to wait by the planes.”

The men, who had gathered to see the Commandos’ arrival, hurry to take charge of Zola, while Steve stands aimlessly, as though he has no idea what to do next, and no will for further action.

Calm, still frozen, she takes stock. “Singh, please show Captain Rogers to his room. He’ll want tea and brandy; tell the innkeeper.”

She hardly hears his agreement, or registers them leaving; she must stay calm, she must think of what to do next. The Howlies look done in; they too, will need warming, and sustenance, and she must find out what happened…

“Come with me,” she tells them, and leads them to the inn, where they sit at one of the tables in the dining room. Calmly, she orders them hot brandy; calmly, she sits down, taking in their grim and sorrowful faces.

“Now,” she says calmly, folding her cold hands in her lap, “Could someone tell me what happened?”

Brandies in hand, they tell her, in fits and starts, not eagerly interrupting each other, as they normally do, but each man taking up the tale when one breaks off, unable to continue. It doesn’t take long—the robot armed with HYDRA’s terrifying energy guns, Steve knocking it down, Bucky shielding him, Bucky blasted from the side of the train. None of the others had been there; they had been further up the train, battling a second robot and a squad of HYDRA soldiers guarding Zola’s carriage.

“Did Captain Rogers see Barnes die?” Peggy asks calmly. She’s almost surprised to feel her heart still beating; it feels like it’s encased in ice.

“No—well, sorta. He wasn’t shot—he fell off the side of the train,” Dugan explains hesitantly.

“But it was three hundred feet, at least—with a river at the bottom. No way he could’ve survived it.”

“It’s a pity,” Monty says, with a stiffness that she recognizes as an excess of emotion, not lack of it. “We should have—he deserved a proper burial.”

“Yes,” she hears herself say, still calm. And then, again, “And you are quite sure he died from the fall—not before? He wasn’t injured before he fell?”

“No, ma’am. But the fall—”

“Yes,” she says clearly. “I understand. Thank you.” She rises, and tells the innkeeper not to let them drink too much alcohol, but to provide whatever else they need.

“Pe—Agent Carter,” Morita calls.

She turns. “Yes?”

“Are you gonna go see to Steve? Only… he shouldn’t be alone, probably.”

“In a few minutes,” she says calmly. “I’ll be back shortly. Finish your drinks.”

Calmly, she walks out of the inn, down the wide main street of the village, down to the long field where the planes are waiting to take them back to headquarters. They’ve bribed the villagers well to tolerate the SSR’s presence, even to clearing away the snow on the still-frozen field….

Four agents stand around Zola, who is seated on the stone wall at the side of the hayfield. She approaches them with steady steps, refusing to admit, even to herself, why she is doing this.

Hope is a dreadful thing, a spark threatening to melt her frozen heart. She clenches her teeth and fists against it, clinging to her rigid composure like a drowning woman to a raft.

“Herr Zola,” she greets him, and her voice is calm, calm and cold as an icy lake.

“Frauline,” he returns, with a greasy smile that does not hide his fear. “The indomitable Agent Carter, I presume. I have heard of your exploits.”

“And I have heard of yours,” she says. “Tell me why I shouldn’t put a bullet through your head, this moment.”

Her agents do not startle, for which she is grateful; she needs this bluff, and she dares not take her eyes off Zola.

Zola gives a high-pitched, nervous laugh. “Forgive me, Frauline, but if your Science Reserve planned to kill me, I think they would not have gone to so much trouble to take me alive.”

“Plans change,” she says blandly. “As it turns out, we’ve already got the information we needed, through other means. And it’s far easier to kill a prisoner than guard one. So tell me, _Herr_ Zola, what use can you possibly be to us?”

His face, already pasty, goes even paler; somehow, she has managed to convince him. “Frauline, I am a scientist,” he says quickly. “Surely your superiors know of my exploits—the great strides I have made—I know the Americans are still looking for a formula for the, the super serum.”

“And you have one?”

“Yes—yes, I do! I could create an army for you—if I just had the tools—”

“And subjects?” she asks coldly. “I’m afraid we aren’t in the habit of sacrificing our men for the sake of a mad scientist who cannot even produce one successful result of his experimentation. We are not ignorant of your so-called formula.”

Incredibly, the strike to Zola’s ego works; he puffs up with indignation. “Mad scientist?” he repeats. “Mad? I will have you know, Frauline, that my experiments have been far more successful than you can imagine. If I had not been constantly interrupted by your war on HYDRA, I would have indisputable results—it is your fault that I do not have a successful subject—it is you who failed to see what was right in front of your eyes, and allowed Sergeant Barnes to be lost in the crevasse!”

“Sergeant Barnes?” she asks, allowing a modicum of interest to show. “What has he got to do with anything?”

“Sergeant Barnes,” he says slowly, with apparent relish, “was the recipient of my serum. If my experimentation had not been interrupted—”

“That proves nothing,” says Peggy, cutting him off. “Perhaps your experiment failed—Barnes never showed any sign of enhancement—”

“Then he lied to you, Frauline,” Zola insists. “I _know_ my serum worked. He was half-dead of pneumonia when I began, and within days he was well—he healed from cuts and bruises at three times the rate of a normal man—I had no time to experiment with broken bones or strength, but my preliminary data showed that he was similar to your beloved Captain America in endurance and healing—”

“Hmm,” says Peggy. “A pity, that you have no means to prove this. Your subject is dead, and we have only your word that your experiments worked.” She begins to turn away.

“What if he were not dead?”

_There it is._ She stops, then looks back at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Sergeant Barnes. They say he fell from the train. If, as I suspect, his enhancements are similar to Captain Rogers… he may still be alive.”

There’s an air of repressed excitement to him; Peggy realizes, with a sick feeling, that he thinks they’d let him continue his experiments if they recovered Bucky. That they would allow Bucky to become a _test subject_ , all in aid of finally producing an army of enhanced soldiers…

_You mean, like we did to Steve?_ a nasty little voice in the back of her head says.

_That was different. Steve volunteered._

_Would he have volunteered, if he knew what would happen to him?_

With sudden clarity, she remembers the way he’d screamed inside his metal coffin; but when they had offered to stop, he had refused. _“No! Don’t stop! I can do this!”_

It’s not the first time she’s wondered what that fit of courage cost him; whether it still costs him, now. She is not sure she wants to know the answer to that question.

She has stood silent too long. Zola’s words are tinder, turning that tiny spark of hope into a flame, threatening her shell of ice.

“We shall see,” she says, and feels a vicious satisfaction at the uncertainty in his face. “Keep a close eye on him,” she adds to the guards. “Don’t let him try any funny business.”

“Yes, ma’am,” says one of them, and she returns his salute halfheartedly before striding back to the village.

Up the frozen lane, past the gingerbread houses wreathed in snow, into the inn, where more agents have joined the Howlies in toasting their fallen friend. She doesn’t pause, but takes the stairs upward, and opens the door to one of the inn’s two rooms, where Steve is staying.

He’s sitting on the bed, staring at his hands; the drinks she had ordered for him sit untouched on the nightstand. He hasn’t even taken off his jacket.

“Steve,” she says.

He turns haunted eyes on her; he looks like he’s aged by decades overnight. “I’m sorry, Pegs,” he says in a broken voice.

“Whatever for?” asks Peggy, in blank astonishment.

“I didn’t keep him safe,” he whispers. “I tried, but—I failed.”

“It’s not your fault. He chose—”

“He wouldn’t have been there, if he wasn’t following me,” says Steve wretchedly. “He could have gone home, after the first time—but I asked him to stay.”

“He would have stayed anyway,” Peggy says. She’s aware that her voice is distant, that she’s standing with her back against the door, unmoving, not comforting, but she finds that she cannot help it; if she lets go even an inch of that icy control, she will fall to pieces. “He damn well thought you were worth it.”

“They told you what happened?”

“Yes.” She hesitates, licking her lips. “Steve—if you had fallen there, do you think you could have survived it?”

“ _Don’t_ , Peggy,” he says harshly. “Do you think I’m not beating myself up enough already? I should have—I know it should’ve been me, I shouldn’t’ve let him cover for me—”

“Shut up,” Peggy snaps. “I’m not blaming you. This is important. _Could you have survived that fall?_ ”

Steve blinks at her, clearly taken aback. “I—I’m not sure,” he says after a moment. “Maybe. If I didn’t—if there was enough snow—maybe. But I’m enhanced, you know my—I have different capabilities.”

“I know,” she says, and takes a deep breath. _Now or never_ , she thinks, and hopes to God she’s making the right choice. If she’s wrong… if Bucky is dead… then she’ll be raising Steve’s hopes for nothing. “Steve, there’s something I need to tell you.”

He looks at her, but his eyes are dull; she can tell he’s only half-listening.

“I don’t want to get your hopes up. But there’s a chance… a very small chance… that Bucky could have survived.”

Now his full attention is on her, the blue eyes sharp and intent as a cat on its prey. “How?”

She takes another deep breath, locking her hands together behind her back. “Zola’s experiments. He claims he gave Bucky a version of the super-serum—and that it worked. And Bucky told me he was stronger and faster than he should be—that he tired less, and healed faster.”

“I didn’t…” Steve trails off, frowning deeply. “He never said anything to me.”

“He didn’t want you to worry,” she says softly.

“Well, I’m sure as hell worried now!”

“Steve…”

“I’m going after him,” he says, getting up. His eyes are blazing, his face deathly pale. Hope, Peggy discovers, looks just as terrifying on him as despair.

“You can’t,” she says, voice breaking along with what’s left of her calm façade. “They need you, Steve. This could be our only chance to take down Schmidt—”

“ _Fuck_ Schmidt,” says Steve furiously. “I’m not going to leave him there if he—if he might not—”

“I’ll go.”

“What?”

“I’ll go,” she repeats, stepping forward. “That’s what I meant. I’ll go look for him.”

He shakes his head, stubborn. “It should be me. I promised, I promised I’d always find him—”

“Steve…” She closes her eyes, opens them, trying to hide the tremble in her voice, the way her hands shake as she smooths them over his lapels. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do, but—”

“Then trust me in this. If he is alive, I will bring him home. I _promise._ ”

Steve clutches her wrists, a little too tightly for comfort. He looks lost, his eyes red, lashes still wet with tears. “I can’t ask that of you, Peggy. Not for me.”

Her laugh sounds more like a sob, shrill and jagged in her throat. “For _you_? I _love_ him, you ass. Do you think I could live with myself, if there was the slightest chance...?”

The rest of what she was going to say is lost as Steve surges forward, kissing her deeply. It’s a hard kiss, desperate and nearly violent, his hands now gripping her upper arms with bruising strength. She responds with equal passion, throwing one arm around his neck and clinging to his arm with the other, trying to press even closer to him.

Somewhere out there, Bucky is lying in the snow, hurt or dying ( _not dead, not dead,_ **_please_** _don’t let him be dead_ ), and she doesn’t know what she’s more afraid of: finding him too late, or not finding him at all. Steve is shaking, crying again, his hand now tangled in her hair, pulling, too rough, too rough, but she doesn’t care; she feels half wild with grief and fear; she wants him to claw her like a cat, to leave trails of blood down her spine and bruises on her arms, wants the pain to chase away the terrible icy hollow inside her chest.

She bites Steve’s lip, and he moans, tugging her closer, encouraging her. _He wants to be punished_ , she thinks; no matter what happened on that train, there is no way Steve won’t blame himself for it. It comes to her, then, why she’s so terrified right now; it’s not just that she doesn’t know if Bucky’s alive, but that she doesn’t know what Steve will do. There’s never been anywhere Bucky went that Steve didn’t try to follow, and she realizes, with dreadful certainty, that that includes death. If Bucky is gone, truly gone, it won’t take long for Steve to follow.

With a gasp, she pulls away, tears running freely down her cheeks. “Steve,” she says brokenly, “If you get yourself killed before I come back, I’ll never forgive you, understand? Whatever happens, I can’t—I can’t lose you both, I—”

“Peg—”

“Promise me, damn you,” she snaps. “Promise me you won’t do anything reckless. I can’t—I can’t bear it, if—”

He opens his mouth, closes it, then rests his forehead against hers. The warmth of his breath ghosts across her skin, proof that they’re still alive, that there’s still hope. “Peggy,” he begins, then stops, clearly searching for words. “I’ll try,” he says finally, pulling back a little. “I won’t make a promise I can’t keep, love, but… I’ll do my best.”

“Even if he’s dead?” The words leave her without her planning it, her fear that she is not enough, will never be enough, to keep him. That the choice he’d refused to make all those months ago is now before him again, in a grimmer form; that this time she’ll be left alone for good.

“I’m not planning to kill myself, if that’s what you’re asking.” His voice is weary, almost flat, the emotion drained out of it.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No,” he says, with grim humor. “You wouldn’t.” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know what I’m heading into, Pegs. We don’t know what information Zola’s got, or how long it’ll be before Phillips sends us out again. For all I know, we’ll still be in Florence when you get back.”

“But if you do get sent out—”

“I’ll try not to do anything stupid,” he says. “I—I won’t do that to you. Not on purpose.”

She nods, resting her cheek against his broad chest. “I love you,” she tells him, voice muffled.

He kisses her hair. “I know. I love you, too.”

“It’s bloody terrifying.”

“I know,” he repeats. “I know.”

With an effort, she pulls entirely away, smoothing her hair where Steve had mussed it. “I’ll look for as long as I can,” she says, “but I don’t expect I’ll be able to go longer than a week.”

“I know.” He swallows, raises his chin. “Peggy—if you can’t find him… I won’t blame you.”

“You will,” she says, not unkindly. “But I know you’ll try not to, and that will have to be enough.”

For once, he doesn’t argue, just looks away, biting his lip.

“I’ll need a favor of you, though.”

“Anything,” he says immediately, and the terrifying thing is, she knows he means it.

“Order me to go,” she says. “You technically rank above me, and Phillips needs you too much to court-martial you. If I go on my own…”

He nods, taking her hands in both of his. For a moment, absurdly, she thinks of wedding vows.

“Agent Carter,” he says solemnly. “I order you to assemble a team of men to search for Sergeant Barnes.”

“Yes, sir,” she whispers, and squeezes his hands.

Stepping back from her, he runs his hands through his hair, attempting to neaten it; automatically, she straightens his collar and wipes the traces of her lipstick from his mouth.

“Do you know who you want to take with you?” he asks, and his voice is neutral, business-like, the wild emotion of a moment before hidden behind the blank mask of Captain America. She hates it, _hates_ it, with a passion, but knows that this is the only way he can deal with this, the only way he can hold himself together for what they need to do.

It only takes a little effort to match his tone, to slip on her own mask. _Just another mission_ , she tells herself. _Retrieving a fallen soldier. Nothing more._ “I’ll need one of the Howlies as a guide,” she says. “Dugan would be best; it’ll be hard going, and he can carry—he can carry a lot of weight.”

Steve nods. “Of course.”

“Singh,” she continues, mentally going over the men stationed here, gauging who will follow her orders, who has the skills she needs. Singh can deal with any kind of technology they encounter; they’ll need someone who can track…. “Mackenzie. We’ll need a medic—”

“Take Franklin,” he says immediately. “We won’t need him where we’re going.”

“And Davies,” she finishes. The man is nearly as large as Dugan, with a reputation for being a fearsome brawler.

Steve doesn’t question her choices, doesn’t even ask for her reasons. “Tell Monty I said for everyone to assemble in the dining room in fifteen minutes. And ask Dugan to come speak with me privately, immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” she says, falling into her role easily. _It’s better this way_ , she thinks. Without the professional façade, they’d probably both crumble to pieces.

“Peg,” he says, the mask cracking for a moment, and his eyes are desperate, vulnerable.

“I know,” she tells him. She doesn’t dare touch him, not now, not when she has a job to do. “I’ll bring him back, Steve. I _will_.”

“Don’t—” He stops, choking, and takes a breath. “Just come back to me. Any way you can.”

She softens slightly, and touches his cheek. “I will.”

For a moment they just stand there, staring at each other; then she forces herself to break away for the third time. “I have to go, darling.”

“I know,” he says.

She glances back as she leaves, to see him standing lost in the middle of the room, his face white, his eyes red-rimmed, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic and chapter titles are from "I Know You're Out There Somewhere" by the Moody Blues.   
> I had a whole idea about how HYDRA conscripted the young men from the village and they were never seen again, and that's why the villagers are amenable to the SSR's bribes. I ended up not having room to put that in the fic itself, but there it is.  
> In canon, Steve and the Howling Commandos are stationed in London, and leave from and return to London for their final two missions. I don't think this makes much sense, since both missions are in the Austrian Alps, and it would be far more convenient (not to mention safer) to fly in and out of Allied territory in Italy. Florence would have been far enough behind the lines of battle to be well out of the way of the fighting, but close enough to run missions to most areas in Nazi-occupied territory. I think it would make sense for the SSR to use this as a temporary base of operations when they know they've got several back-to-back missions occurring in Austria, rather than going all the way back to England.  
> Fun facts about Peggy's team: Mackenzie was a gillie before the war, which is why he's their tracking expert. I included Singh because there was actually a fairly large contingent of Indian soldiers in Italy by 1945, and the SSR seems to be more mixed than the rest of the military would have been at that time. I don't have a cool background for Davies, other than that he's Welsh.


	2. Even if I Vanish Without Trace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for canon-typical violence, body horror, descriptions of bodily fluids.  
> I appreciate your comments!

_I know that she will find me  
I know that she will find me  
Even if I vanish without trace  
Oh and though I'm running blindly  
I know that she will find me  
Hiding with the shadows that I chase_

_\--“She Will Find Me”, Dougie MacLean_

As much as Peggy wants to rush right out and search for Bucky, she knows they haven’t a hope of finding him before nightfall, and it’s too dangerous to try to make the search in the dark. Instead, she sees off the planes carrying Steve, the other agents, and Zola, and goes back to the inn to pack what she needs for the expedition.

 _One week,_ they had agreed. Then Steve will send Howard—or more likely, one of Howard’s pilots—to pick them up, Bucky or no Bucky. If something went wrong, she’d just have to hope they could send a radio transmission back to base, even if they were at the bottom of some godforsaken Alpine ravine.

Peggy takes a deep breath, lets it out, and weighs a woolen jumper in her hands. They need to pack as lightly as possible, in order to move quickly—but they’ll need to stay warm, too. And if— _when_ —they find Bucky, they’ll need to keep him warm, as well.

 _If he’s still alive_ , she thinks, but she rolls the jumper—one of Steve’s—as small as it will go, and shoves it down to the bottom of her pack.

“Ma’am,” says a voice from the doorway. She turns to see Singh, with Mackenzie hovering behind him.

“Ma’am, the innkeeper is serving dinner. We can bring you a tray, if…?”

“No, that’s alright. I’ll come down.” She smiles at them, or tries to; neither of their worried expressions lighten, so her attempt may not have been entirely successful.

“This Sergeant Barnes,” says Singh carefully. “Are we looking for a body, or…?”

Peggy swallows. “I’m not sure, Lance-Corporal. He may still be alive.”

“In this weather?” Mackenzie asks incredulously. “Ma’am, it’s below freezing out there.”

“If he survived, he may have found shelter,” says Peggy firmly. “In any case, we must prepare for either scenario. If he’s alive, he will require food and clothing. If he is not—” She takes a breath, forcing herself to icy composure once more. “Then we will bring back the body. That is all.”

The men look dubious, but allow her to precede them downstairs, where the innkeeper has dished up the tinned beef and cabbage they’d brought with them.

“I want everyone up at 0600 tomorrow,” she tells them when they’ve finished eating. “We leave at dawn.”

They start out the next day following Dugan’s lead; he can tell them the exact place where the zipline was set up, and extrapolate from there the point at which Bucky might have fallen. Walking along the bottom of the ravine, they’re slowed down by the deep snow, and are forced to scramble over rocks and make detours to avoid falling into the icy river.

If Bucky fell into that, Peggy thinks, they will probably never find the body.

They reach the zipline location at midday, and stop to rest and eat a quick lunch. It’s too cold for them to want to linger, even if their mission had been less urgent, and Mackenzie, their tracking expert, takes the lead as they press on.

There’s not much for him to find. They walk for hours, but the snow is undisturbed, with no trace of any human presence. With the sun sinking low on the horizon, Peggy is forced to call a halt. They set up their tents, heat up their rations over the portable stove, and turn in shortly after.

Peggy doesn’t get much sleep; it’s hard to get warm, even with all her layers of wool and down, and the comfort of her sleeping bag. She doesn’t want to think about how Bucky might be faring, injured and exposed to the elements for a second night in the running. Every whistle of the wind sounds like a cry of distress, every crunch of snow or distant rockfall a staggering footstep. Dawn comes as a relief; if she cannot shut out the nightmare images crowding her mind, then she’d rather be doing something useful.

It’s late morning when Mackenzie suddenly stops them. “Look.”

Peggy looks. It has snowed in the nearly three days since Bucky fell, but not enough to hide the unmistakable red stain beneath. Blood.

“Stay where you are,” she tells the men. “Let Mackenzie work.”

Mackenzie circles the scene carefully, scanning the snowy ground. “He fell here,” he says. “You can see where there’s an outline in the snow. He was injured, looks like he bounced off a few rocks before he ended up down here.” He scans the cliffs above them, and points. “There’s a bit of fabric caught on that ledge, see?”

“But if he fell here,” says Dugan, voicing everyone’s thoughts, “Where did he go?”

“Where, indeed,” Mackenzie mutters, edging slowly around the stained snow. “Bleeding like that, he can’t’ve gone far… and there’s no sign of beasts tearin’ at him—sorry, ma’am.”

“Don’t mind me,” says Peggy crisply. Her throat is so tight, it’s a wonder she can speak at all. “Just—find him.”

Mackenzie is staring at the ground, a slight frown on his face. “Someone was here,” he says abruptly. “There’s footprints—not his. Two men, at a guess. The day before yesterday, I’m guessing—the snow’s covered their tracks. Look here, you can see where his weight was moved, and here—” he points at another depression in the snow—“they must’ve put him on some sort of stretcher. You can see there’s one man at the front, another behind.”

“Can you track them?” Peggy demands.

He nods, his expression one of grim determination. “They weren’t trying to hide themselves, ma’am. We can follow ‘em, right enough.”

“Then let’s go,” she orders, and they fall in line, following him.

The footprints are easy enough to follow, and soon enough, there are other, less hopeful signs: red drips and pools accompany the prints, and occasionally even a line in the snow that could, Mackenzie says, be a fingertip, dragging.

“He’s injured badly,” he says, pointing at yet another trace of blood on the snow. “I don’t know if he’ll have survived, Agent Carter.”

“Only one way to find out,” she says, steadily enough, and they march on.

The light is once again fading by the time they reach their apparent destination. The right-hand side of the gorge has been losing height as they went along, and they follow the prints up a steep path, and directly onto the railroad track. After about ten minutes of walking, they cautiously round a bend in the tracks, and Peggy catches sight of a metal door set into the cliff above the rails, guarded by two men in Soviet uniform.

The men see them at almost the same time, and before Peggy can say anything, the Soviets open fire.

Peggy and Mackenzie, who had been in the lead, dive for the shelter of the cliff, hands over their faces to avoid the shower of rock shards chipped loose by the shooting.

“Well, I guess they aren’t friendlies,” says Dugan grimly.

“Well, we didn’t exactly get a chance to identify ourselves,” Peggy says. “It’s possible they thought we were Nazis, or HYDRA.”

“Or maybe _they’re_ HYDRA,” suggests Davies.

“If they are, it’s the first we’ve heard of it.” She glances around at the terrain, calculating. “Alright, we’ll have to come at them a different way. Singh, Davies, can you climb down below the track, and pop up on the other side? That way, we can flank them. We’ll draw their fire, and you ought to be able to pick them off from your position.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they chorus, and head back down the track, looking for a place to scramble down.

“You stay put,” Peggy adds to the others. “I’m going to try to reason with them.”

Mackenzie makes an abortive hand gesture, as though he had been about to grab her arm, and thought better of it. “You’re not going out there, surely?”

“Of course not. I can shout just as well from here.” She takes a few steps forward, keeping the curve of the rock between her and the guards, and takes a deep breath before bellowing in Russian, “ _Hello there! We are British! Allies! We come in peace!_ ”

She’s answered by another hail of bullets.

When the soldiers have stopped firing, she tries again. “ _Russia is our ally_!” she shouts. “ _Please stop shooting_!”

There’s a pause; then, finally, an answering shout: “ _Hail HYDRA!”_

Peggy retreats as the shooting resumes, exchanging a despondent look with the others. “Damn. This complicates things.”

“D’you think dear old Stalin knows his men are working for HYDRA?” asks Mackenzie.

“HYDRA has made it quite clear that their affiliations are their own,” she responds. “I wouldn’t be surprised at all if there’s a Soviet branch. The question is, whether it’s a rival sect, or whether Schmidt has extended his tentacles into Russia.”

“Stalin’s a damned fool if he thinks he can control Schmidt,” says Franklin.

She shakes her head. “He was fool enough to ally himself with Hitler at the beginning; he’ll do whatever he thinks will get him power.”

“Maybe they’ll take each other out,” Dugan says. “Save us the trouble.”

“One of them would win,” says Peggy absently, watching the spot where Davies and Singh should appear. “And then we’d have to deal with whatever nightmare he came up with next.”

The discussion is cut short when she sees Singh cautiously climbing onto the track, about a fifty yards away; he and Davies are hidden from the Soviets’ view by the cliff, as the door the men are guarding is set back from the tracks by about ten yards.

“Dugan, Mackenzie,” she says. “With me, and start shooting.”

They do so, shooting blindly without much hope of doing any damage; meanwhile, Davies and Singh creep forward, and finally take their shots.

The result is a scream, a final burst of gunfire, then silence. Davies rises from his half-crouch, then waves the all-clear. Peggy steps forward cautiously.

The two Soviets are dead, not far from where she’s standing; they must have been working their way forward, intending to engage at close-quarters. Singh and Davies had gotten them in the back.

Peggy eyes them emotionlessly. “Search them for keys,” she says. “Singh, Davies, good work.”

“Ma’am,” Singh responds, and Davies just nods, cheeks flushed with adrenaline and exertion.

Dugan unearths a set of keys, one of them a heavy steel that matches the lock.

“We’ll throw open the door,” says Peggy, “And step back. Let them come to us. We can’t afford to fire indiscriminately; we don’t know where Barnes is, or if they have other prisoners.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Alright, let’s go.”

As it turns out, however, there’s no need to use the key; just as they reach the door, it bursts open, a group of Soviet soldiers spilling out with guns at the ready.

The fight is short and brutal. The SSR agents, ranged on either side of the door, are able to pick off the Soviets before the enemy soldiers can get more than a few shots off, and though Peggy’s team is outnumbered, their superior position gives them the advantage.

In just a few minutes, the doorway is empty, the ground in front of it piled with bodies. A couple men still live; Peggy dispatches Franklin to check them over and Davies to keep watch, and leads the rest of her team inside.

They find an empty room, with bunks on one side, a radio on the other, and the remains of an interrupted meal on the table in the center. There’s a sink and a stove against the back wall, both apparently powered by propane. And at the back of the room, there’s another door.

“Singh, please take a look at the radio,” she says, voice calm despite the pulse pounding wildly in her ears. “See if there are any transmissions going in or out. Mackenzie, stay with Singh. Dugan, with me, please.”

She approaches the door slowly, dreading what she will find beyond it. Is Bucky even here? And if he is, is he still alive?

Swallowing hard, she puts her hand to the latch, and opens the door.

The smells of blood, sweat, and human waste assault her the moment she enters. Raising a hand to cover her nose, she steps forward, taking in the room at a glance. The walls, ceiling, and floor are concrete, with two cells taking up the left side of the room. The first one is empty. The second holds a lone figure, huddled on the floor beneath a ragged grey blanket.

She approaches the second cell cautiously, hardly daring to hope—but all she can see is the lump of blanket, dark hair just barely visible at one end. It could be Bucky. It could be anyone.

“Dugan,” she says quietly. “Keys?”

Silently, he hands her the key ring. The third key opens the lock with a click, and she pulls the door open with a loud screech, the bottom bar scraping on the concrete floor.

For the first time, the prisoner reacts to their presence; he flinches hard and curls up, clearly trying to protect his head and stomach. A surge of cold rage seizes Peggy’s heart. Whoever he is, he must have learned to expect pain from anyone entering his cell.

Kneeling, she pulls the blanket away from his head, and he jerks back from her touch, still hiding his face from her.

“Please,” he whispers hoarsely. “Please, no—it hurts, please…”

Relief and horror war in her chest at the sound of the familiar voice. “Barnes,” she says. “It’s okay, it’s me, it’s Peggy. I’m here. You’re safe.”

That finally gets him to turn his head, and she swallows hard. His face is a mass of bruises, dried blood caked around his mouth and nose, and there’s a half-healed gash across his forehead that must have been nasty when it first occurred. His eyes are swollen into slits, but the sliver of blue she can see is wild and scared.

“Peg?” he rasps. Then, “Am I dead, then?”

“No, Bucky, of course not. I’ve come to get you.”

“Are _you_ dead?”

“No, no one’s dead, Bucky, I’m here, I’m really here, I’ve come to rescue you. You didn’t think we’d leave you, did you?”

He screws his eyes shut, pained. “But I fell,” he mutters. “It was—I fell.”

“Yes, darling. You were captured by HYDRA, but we’ve come to rescue you.”

“No,” he mumbles. “No, that was before. That was… ‘M dreaming. You’re not… you’re not real…”

“Bucky, no, look at me. I’m here. I wasn’t there last time, remember? This is real.”

He shakes his head, still refusing to look at her. “Dream,” he insists.

“Bucky…” She sighs, then leans forward and kisses him.

For a moment, he remains utterly still; then his mouth opens, and he clumsily tries to reciprocate without really lifting his head. When she draws away, he makes a pained little noise of protest, head lolling back onto the concrete, but at least his eyes are open.

“Could a dream do that?” she asks, and his lips twitch in a brave attempt at a smile.

“I dunno, Peg. I might need a little more convincin’.”

“Prat,” she says, nearly laughing with relief. “You can have another when we’ve got you out of here.”

His gaze strays behind her, to the empty air at her shoulder. “Is… is Steve…?”

“He’s not here, darling. He had a very important mission, and I promised I’d bring you home. He never would have gone if I hadn’t.”

“That… dumb punk. Shoulda… shouldn’t’ve…” He pauses, struggles for a moment, then says, “I’m broken, Peg. It’s no good. I can’t… I can’t walk out, not this time. I can’t… I’m no good. I’m broken.”

“You’re injured, not broken,” Peggy corrects, trying to keep her tone calm and assured when she wants to cry and rage. “And we’re prepared to carry you out, if need be. This isn’t like last time.”

He shakes his head slightly, tears leaking down his cheeks. “They took my arm,” he mumbles. “My arm, Peg, it’s… it’s gone.”

Shock strikes her dumb for a moment; then, with an effort, she says calmly, “May I take a look, love?”

“Knock yourself out.”

Carefully, she pulls down the blanket. The sight that greets her is sickening; she presses the back of her hand to her mouth to prevent herself making any sound. Deep scrapes and gouges run all down the left side of his torso, all looking as though they’re a week old rather than a couple of days. His ribs have been wrapped with bandages, at least, but there’s a dark blue, boot-shaped bruise on his belly, stark against the yellow-green patchwork of older bruises covering his skin. The ammonia-scent of urine is stronger than ever; now she can see that his trousers are soaked through.

And just as he’d said, his left arm is now nothing more than a stump, cut off about six inches below the shoulder and swathed in bandages.

She swallows hard, and meets his eyes. “Bucky…”

His mouth tightens, and he closes his eyes again, his breathing shallow. Goosebumps ripple across his skin; there’s only a sheet between him and the floor, and she has a feeling it’s probably wet, too.

“Can I have our medic look at you?”

He makes a small, unhappy noise in his throat, and she fumbles for his remaining hand and holds it tight.

“I know, pet, I know, but we need to treat your injuries before we can move you.”

He takes a breath, wincing at even that small movement. “Okay—okay, just…”

“What?”

“Stay?”

“Of course, darling. I’ll stay as long as you like.” She turns her head. “Dugan, tell Mackenzie to get Franklin. Don’t let anyone else in.”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Dugan. There’s something off about his tone, and she realizes with a jolt that she just _kissed Bucky_ in front of _Dugan_ , who knows she and Steve are dating. It was a bloody idiotic thing to do, but she’ll have to deal with it later; she doesn’t have time to worry about it now, not with Bucky lying there injured.

Franklin comes in with his medical kit, eyebrows drawing together in a fierce scowl when he sees Bucky’s condition. “Well, you’ve been through the mill, and no mistake,” he says. “Alright if I have a look at you?”

Bucky nods without lifting his head, his eyes still fixed on Peggy.

“What injuries can you tell me about?” asks Franklin, pulling on a pair of gloves.

“Arm. My… arm.”

“Your left arm?”

“Yeah… ‘s gone.”

“Amputated?” Franklin inquires.

Bucky shudders. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely.

“Alright, I’ll take a look in a minute. What else?”

He licks his lips. “Broke… broke my leg.”

“Which one?”

“Left.”

“What else?”

“Ribs,” he mutters. “Head. Left side, mostly.”

“Any numbness?”

Bucky makes a hoarse, rasping sound that under better circumstances might be a laugh. “I wish.”

“I’m going to remove the blanket, now,” Franklin says calmly. “It will probably be necessary to cut off your pants.”

“’Kay.”

Franklin meets Peggy’s eyes. “You might want to step outside, Agent Carter.”

It doesn’t take Bucky’s noise of protest or the way he clutches her hand to decide her; there’s hardly any force on earth that could move her just now. “I’m fine where I am, Franklin,” she says coolly. “Thank you for your concern.”

Franklin shrugs, turning back to the task at hand. With the blanket gone, the smell intensifies; it’s obvious that Bucky has been lying in his own mess for some time. Peggy is beyond grateful when neither of the men comments; she doesn’t think she could bear it if anyone drew attention to it, if Bucky was made to feel ashamed for something that isn’t remotely his fault.

“Dugan, get his boots off, will you?” says Franklin, pulling out a knife. “Don’t worry about saving ‘em, they’ll be ruined anyway.”

“Got it.” Dugan starts cutting through the swollen laces while Franklin cuts off Bucky’s trousers. The left leg hardly needs it; it’s been shredded most of the way through all along his side, and someone has cut the fabric off at the knee in order to splint his lower leg.

“Peg,” Bucky whispers. He’s shivering, hard enough for his teeth to chatter. He doesn’t seem able to say anything else, just clutches at her, in pain and clearly frightened.

“I’m here, Bucky,” she murmurs, draping her jacket over him. She folds up her scarf and fits it under his head, trying to move him as little as possible. “I’ve got you.”

Dugan pulls one of his boots off, revealing swollen, bruised flesh, and the tiniest of whimpers escapes Bucky’s lips.

“I know, darling, I know it hurts. Just hold on for me, alright? You’re doing so well. So brave, such a brave boy. It’s alright, everything’s alright now, it’s going to be okay,” she babbles, hardly knowing what she’s saying, only that Bucky is hurting, that he needs her, needs reassurance. “It’s okay, we’re going to help you, we’ll have you back home in no time…”

“Barnes, can you wiggle your toes for me?” asks Franklin.

Bucky wiggles them.

“How about your fingers?”

Peggy lets go his hand so he can demonstrate.

Franklin nods. “Not paralyzed, then,” he mutters. “Dugan, get the stretcher and blankets. And Davies, to help carry him. We’ll take him into the main room.”

“Have the others clear the bodies away from the door, if they haven’t already,” says Peggy, remembering that she’s supposed to be in charge. “And see if they can get some water boiling.”

“Got it,” he says, and leaves, the door shutting quietly in his wake.

Franklin is probing at Bucky’s legs, asking, “Does this hurt?” as he goes.

“A little… a little… FUCK!” Bucky gasps, crushing Peggy’s hand. “Yeah, Doc, that… that hurt.”

“You’ve got a broken tibia. But if you can feel pain, it means you probably don’t have severe damage to your spinal cord, so that’s something.”

“Great.”

“You’ve been very lucky, Sergeant,” Franklin says. “Few people could have survived these injuries, especially in these conditions. You don’t even have frostbite.”

“The frostbite was on my left hand,” rasps Bucky.

Peggy laughs weakly. “I see your atrocious sense of humor is still intact.” Her voice comes out shakier than she had intended, the lump in her throat making it hard to speak normally.

Bucky squeezes her hand again, this time for her comfort rather than his. “’m funny,” he insists, then makes a pained noise when Franklin puts pressure on his hip.

“That hurt?”

“ _Yes!_ ”

“Might have a fractured pelvis, too.” He glances at Peggy. “Probably best to clean him up before we move him.”

She glances down. They’ve stripped Bucky to just his shorts, and he is, quite frankly, a mess. There’s no point in moving him to a clean bed, only to contaminate it the minute they set him down. “I take your point. Shall I tell Dugan—”

“Peg,” rasps Bucky.

“Yes?”

“Don’… don’ let ‘em see me like this… _please_ , Peg… not…” He makes a gesture, a barely-there motion of his hand, but Peggy understands.

He must have heard Dugan’s name, his voice—he has no way of knowing the “others” she mentioned aren’t the other Howling Commandos, but strangers. From what she’s heard, he’s always kept up something of a façade with his men, only allowing them to see the competent, put-together, charming sergeant, Captain America’s right-hand man. Bucky is proud, and that pride has kept him going for longer than Peggy thinks anyone else realizes. And he is too proud now to let his men see him helpless in this way, needing to be cleaned and cared for like an infant.

Then again, she supposes he’s probably not too keen on the idea of a bunch of strangers seeing him like this, either.

“Alright, love,” she says gently. “It’ll just be me and the medic, alright? But I have to go get the materials.”

“Carter,” says Franklin, bushy eyebrows drawing together. “You do realize what you’re signing up for, right?”

She shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “It’s not my first time dealing with this… sort of thing.”

“Alright, then. If you’re sure… make it quick, before he gets hypothermia from this damned cement floor.”

“Five minutes,” she tells Bucky. “Then I’ll be back. Count for me, alright?”

“’Kay,” he mumbles, reluctantly letting go her hand.

Peggy hurries away, shaking out her fingers as she does so. Even in his weakened state, Bucky’s got an awfully strong grip.

She intercepts Dugan and Davies right outside the door. “Doc’s changed his mind. Leave the stretcher; come help me find some rags to clean him up with.”

They follow her into the main room, where she repeats her demand, adding, “And water— _is_ there any warm water to be had? Or soap?”

“As luck would have it,” drawls Mackenzie, “the Russkis appear to have put the kettle on right before we interrupted. It’s probably still hot.”

“Perfect. Is there a bucket, or…”

“I’ll look for one.”

Davies, meanwhile, has found the Russians’ footlockers, and is ripping one of their shirts into shreds. “This work?”

“Yes, that’s perfect, thank you.”

She finds a bar of soap by the sink, and fills a bucket with water from the kettle, then adds a little cold water until it’s a comfortable temperature. Mackenzie approaches with an armload of cloth strips, which she accepts with a grateful smile.

“Good work, you lot. Dugan, Davies, I’ll call when we need the stretcher. Until then, no one is to enter the room, understand?”

They all murmur their assent, and she heads back to the prison-room, anxiously calculating the seconds in her head.

“Three minutes, forty-six seconds,” Bucky greets her, when she’s crouched beside him again. “Or… it might’ve been thirty-seven. I… lost track, a few times.”

“As long as I kept my promise,” she says, squeezing his hand. “We’re going to get you cleaned up now, alright?”

He nods slightly, squeezing his eyes shut; the movement must cause him pain.

“Okay,” she says, and joins Franklin, pulling on the pair of gloves he hands her.

They lay the blanket underneath him, so that his newly-cleaned skin won’t come in contact with the floor, and inch it upwards as they go. Franklin cuts off Bucky’s shorts, as well, and Peggy turns her head away, not wanting to encroach on his privacy any more than she already is.

When it comes time to scrub his back, Peggy hooks Bucky’s arm around her neck and leans back, pulling him upright, while Franklin cups the back of his head and pushes. Bucky slumps into her, letting his forehead rest limply on her shoulder while Franklin runs the wet cloth over his back, and rubs iodine on the cuts and abrasions there. When they finally lay him down on the clean blanket, there are tears trickling down his swollen face, and his jaw is clenched in pain.

Peggy wipes the tears away with her handkerchief. “I’m sorry, Bucky, I’m sorry… it’s almost over, darling, we’ve just got to get you onto the stretcher, now…”

He nods, but doesn’t speak, his remaining hand clenched in a fist as she lays a second blanket over him.

“Can’t you give him something for the pain?” she asks Franklin.

“I will, but I have to finish my examination first. I need him to be able to tell me where it hurts.”

“I see. We can carry him out now, though, can’t we?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go get Dugan and Davies.”

When Bucky is settled onto one of the lower bunks, Peggy looks around, noting that he’s the only wounded man in the room. “Where are the injured Soviets?” she asks Davies.

“Cyanide capsules,” he says with a grimace. “Started foaming at the mouth the minute Doc went to look at ‘em.”

“Hm. Unfortunate.” She finds that she couldn’t really care less; the sight of Bucky’s injuries has her still seething with rage, and if the Russians were still alive she’d happily kill them all again. Vengeance isn’t usually her style, but, well—it’s Bucky.

Rather than dwell on it, she sends Davies to relieve Mackenzie as sentry, and checks on Singh.

“A few transmissions have come in, ma’am,” he tells her. “It is all in code, of course, but there are several here that have already been translated—someone back at base ought to be able to crack it.”

“Good work,” she tells him. “Keep listening in; they may attempt to communicate with the group who was stationed here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, and gets back to work.

By this time, Franklin has cleaned and re-bandaged Bucky’s wounds, put a better splint on his leg, and given him a dose of morphine, and another of penicillin. Peggy heats up some canned soup from the Soviets’ supplies, and Dugan helps Bucky sit up so she can feed it to him.

Bucky manages about half the soup before turning his head aside, eyes drifting shut.

“Let him sleep,” says Franklin, who had been watching the process. “Best thing for him right now is rest, until we can get him to a hospital.”

Peggy nods, and takes the soup away while Dugan and Franklin move Bucky to a horizontal position and slide a pillow under his head.

A look at her watch tells her it’s after six; they’ll have to stay here for the night, not that Bucky’s in any condition to travel, anyway. It’s unlikely anyone will attempt an attack in the dark, and she decides that having her team warm and rested for tomorrow’s journey outweighs the benefits of keeping a sentry outside. Decision made, she calls Mackenzie back inside, bars the door, and sets everyone to preparing dinner.

Bucky passes the evening fading in and out of consciousness, but they manage to get a little more soup into him, and Franklin gives him another shot of morphine when he burns through the first dose more quickly than expected.

Meanwhile, Peggy discovers a filing cabinet full of documents and maps, which she thinks, from a cursory look-through, could contain information about the Soviet-HYDRA connection. She spends several hours sorting through it, relying on her somewhat rudimentary Russian skills to decide what is important enough to take with them, and what can safely be burned.

She falls asleep that night feeling more settled than she has in at least a week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from "She Will Find Me" by Dougie MacLean.  
> I feel like Peggy would speak a lot of languages, at least on a fairly basic level, considering how much international spywork she tends to do.  
> Fun facts: Army medics were not necessarily doctors, but it was common to refer to a medic as "Doc", anyway. Medical staff in WWII did use rubber gloves, but they were washed and reused between patients, and were sometimes used even with holes in them. Penicillin was first put into production during WWII, and sulfa drugs, another type of antibiotic, were used widely throughout the war.


	3. In the Darkness I'll Be There

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: mention of needles/injections.

_And if you wake up wondering_

_In the darkness I'll be there_

_My arms will close around you_

_And protect you with the truth._

_-“I Know You’re Out There Somewhere”, The Moody Blues_

Bucky wakes in the night crying for his mother, and Peggy nearly falls out of bed trying to get to him. She barks her shin on the ladder of the bunkbed, trips over the canteen beside his bed, and catches herself on his mattress, reaching for his shoulder before she thinks better of it and lays a hand on his forehead instead.

“Shh,” she soothes, stroking his hair. “Shh, darling, it’s alright, you’re alright, you’re safe. Nobody’s going to hurt you now. Bucky, it’s alright.”

He’s looking at her, but she can tell he’s not seeing her—his eyes are wild and unfocused, and his breath is fast and painful-sounding.

“Ma,” he whispers. “Ma, make it stop, I can’t anymore, I… _please_ …”

Telling him his mother isn’t here would probably be the opposite of helpful right now. “It’s okay, Bucky, it’s okay, I know it hurts,” she murmurs. “Just be brave for me, alright? It’ll stop soon, I promise.” She turns her head, keeping her voice low. “Franklin, the morphine must have worn off. Please tell me you’ve got more.”

“He shouldn’t of gone through it this fast,” Franklin mutters, but he’s already loading up a syringe, movements practiced and precise even this soon after waking in the middle of the night.

Bucky whimpers and flails his arm, connecting painfully with Peggy’s ribs. “Stop,” he repeats. “Stop it, I can’t—I don’t want it—”

“Shh, darling, hold still, it’s okay, just hold still,” she whispers, while Franklin swabs Bucky’s thigh with alcohol. “It’ll all be alright—”

“We’d better hold him down,” says Franklin. “Dugan, get your ass over here.”

Dugan arrives and grabs Bucky’s shoulders, and Mackenzie takes hold of his legs. Predictably, Bucky panics and starts to struggle, his open eyes still staring at horrors Peggy can only imagine. In his weakened state, he’s no match for two burly men and Peggy, and they hold him still while Franklin administers the drug.

Bucky flinches as the needle goes in, gives a funny little gasping breath, and chokes, “James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038, you _bastards_!”

“One more,” says Franklin grimly, and Peggy repeats, "Just one more, Bucky," as they administer the penicillin.

“All done, Bucky,” Peggy murmurs. “You’re safe, you’re safe, it’s alright.”

For the first time, he seems to really _see_ her; his eyes focus, and he stops struggling. He stares at her intently for a long moment, then slumps, misery etching the lines of his face. “I’m hallucinating,” he whispers. “Aren’t I?”

“No, Bucky, this is real. I’m real. You’re safe.”

“Was all of it a dream?” he asks pitifully. “You, and Steve, and… fuck, I’m still, he’s still got me, doesn’t he? That fuckin’ rat-faced mad scientist.”

She cups his cheek, careful of the bruises. “No—no, you aren’t dreaming. The Russians captured you, but you’re safe now.”

There are tears rolling down his cheeks. All the fight seems to have gone out of him. “I wish it was real,” he whispers hoarsely. “But it can’t be, he… he could never… not like that.”

_Fuck_ , she thinks. The last thing she needs is Bucky getting himself blue-carded because he can’t keep his mouth shut when he’s out of his mind with pain and nightmares. “It’s real,” she says firmly, stroking his cheek. She doesn’t dare kiss him again, not in front of everyone. “I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.”

The morphine must be kicking in; the tension is slowly draining from his body, the furrows smoothing from his face.

“Peggy?” he says slowly, hoarse and hopeful.

“Yes, Bucky. It’s me.”

“Dunno how I got so lucky,” he murmurs. “Swell dame like you.”

“You’re lucky to be alive,” she says tartly, hoping to cut any sweet-talking off at the pass.

“Ha,” he says, and cranes his neck, expression going sweet and hopeful in a way she knows means trouble. “Peggy. Peg. Doll. Come ‘ere.”

“I’m right here, Bucky,” she says, casting a helpless look at Dugan, who studiously avoids her gaze.

“Won’t you give me a little sugar, sweetheart?” he asks, all soft and persuasive. “Little kiss for your fella, huh?”

“Bucky—”

“Aw, don’t be like that, Pegs, you’re killin’ me…”

“Shh, Bucky. Calm down, you need to rest.”

“Rest better if you’d gimme a kiss,” he says, delirious and incorrigible.

“Rest,” she says softly. “Rest, and then we’ll see.”

“Y’re a hard woman, Peg,” he mumbles, but his eyelids are fluttering, his fingers already loosening their grip on hers, and in another moment, he’s passed out. 

Peggy takes a deep breath, and glances around at the other men, who quickly look away.

“Is he in any danger, do you think?” she asks Franklin.

The medic sighs. “The penicillin I just gave him should bring his fever down. We’d better keep an eye on him, though; I gave him a bigger dose of morphine than I normally would, since he burned through the other doses so quickly.”

“Alright,” says Peggy. “We can take shifts to watch him. I’ll stay up with him for now—”

“I’ll take the next shift,” says Dugan immediately. He’s still watching her intently, eyes narrowed. “He’s my sergeant.”

“I can take the one after him,” says Mackenzie. “Davies is breaking trail tomorrow, he needs his beauty sleep.”

“He’ll need his next dose of morphine at 0600, if not before,” says Franklin. “Wake me then, or if anything changes. If his fever doesn’t break, or he has difficulty breathing…”

“We’ll wake you,” Peggy promises. “Get to bed, everyone. I’ll hold the fort for now.”

They go, but not without casting several suspicious glances in her direction.

Withholding a sigh, she turns back to Bucky. It’s not his fault, poor devil, but he’s made everything more complicated, all the same. If there’s a single man on this expedition who doesn’t realize the two of them are involved, she’ll be lucky—and the odds of no one carrying tales back to the rest of the SSR are close to nil.

_Damn it, Bucky_ , she thinks, smoothing a hand over his hot forehead. _Why do you have to make everything so difficult?_

The journey back is hellish.

The men take it in turns to bear Bucky on a stretcher, while those not carrying it walk ahead of them, breaking trail through the deep snow. It’s a tough slog for everyone, and it doesn’t help that Bucky burns through the morphine twice as fast as he should, slipping in and out of consciousness and lucidity. Pain seems to trigger sense-memories of his torture at HYDRA’s hands, while the morphine causes nightmares and sometimes even hallucinations. They have to strap him down to keep him immobilized, and whenever he wakes up, he panics and struggles, thinking he’s in HYDRA’s clutches again. It’s a constant struggle to reassure him and keep him from hurting himself.

It takes them four days to get back to the rendezvous point, by which time their supplies are nearly exhausted, even with the additions from the Russians’ store. Peggy feels like weeping with relief when they finally reach the village, although outwardly she tries to remain cool and collected. They’re just barely in time, too: Stark is scheduled to pick them up tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "I Know You're Out There Somewhere".   
> Morphine can cause hallucinations in some people/at certain dosages. As far as I can tell, the term "flashback" wasn't really in use as a psychological term until the 60s, but basically the pain is triggering flashbacks for Bucky, esp. because his fever is already messing with his perception. Hopefully that's clear.  
> I always appreciate comments!


	4. Nor Bid the Stars Farewell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the events from the train onward from Bucky's point of view. Content warnings for medical trauma, needles, hallucinations, bodily fluids, drug mentions, and general unpleasantness. If you want to skip the worst of it, you can scroll down to "He wakes, head throbbing, and squints against the bright sunlight."

_Though here at journey's end I lie  
in darkness buried deep,  
beyond all towers strong and high,  
beyond all mountains steep,  
above all shadows rides the Sun  
and Stars for ever dwell:  
I will not say the Day is done,  
nor bid the Stars farewell.  
\--“In Western Lands”, J.R.R. Tolkien_

Bucky wakes. Everything is white, and pain, and cold so fierce it feels like fire. He attempts to move, and everything goes black.

He wakes. Everything is white. He can’t feel his body. He’s too warm. The sun shines in his eyes; that can’t be right. Where is Steve?

He wakes. There is a man looking at him; his face is pale, and he’s wearing a fur cap and a long coat. Russian. Bucky tries to speak; his mouth is numb. His tongue won’t move.

“кто ты?”[1]

His tongue won’t move.

“Американский”,[2] says a voice.

Bucky forces frozen lips apart. “Help me,” he rasps. His words come out as a whisper, less tangible than the wisp of steam that accompanies them. “Please.”

There is a conversation. It’s hard to tell what they are saying, how many of them there are; it takes so much energy to stay awake. He closes his eyes…

He wakes. The man is crouching next to him, staring at something he holds in his hand. Bucky catches the glint of metal—dog tags.

“James Buchanan Barnes.”

The man’s heavy accent renders the name unfamiliar; it takes him a moment to recognize it as his.

He is too frozen to nod.

He wakes. It hurts; a sharp, demanding sort of pain, piercing through the numbness like daggers of ice. The men are jostling him, carrying him on a makeshift litter. His head lolls to the side, and he catches sight of his own arm, pulverized almost beyond recognition.

It leaves a bloody trail in the snow.

He wakes. It is dark, but an indoor sort of dark; he can smell concrete, blood, and piss—a prison, then. The numbness has receded, allowing pain to fill its place; his feet and fingers tingle with returning life. _Pins and needles_ is too mild a term—it feels like being stabbed and set on fire, all at the same time.

He groans, and turns his head, causing everything to hurt even worse. His head is throbbing. He manages to roll on his side just before he pukes.

He wakes. It is no longer dark. There are people around him, men’s voices. Rough hands on him, holding him still. The sound of a saw. Deep, lancing pain.

He screams, the sound bouncing off concrete walls, and someone curses in Russian, and presses a meaty hand against his mouth.

The sound of the saw fills his ears, a counterpoint to his own desperately pounding heart.

His left arm is agony, worse than anything he’s ever felt, worse even then the fire Zola had injected into his bones—

He wakes. Everything is pain.

Someone kicks him awake, and pulls him upright by the hair so they can force water and broth down his throat. He drinks eagerly, ignoring the pain, and collapses onto the floor when they let him go.

He knows the words, has practiced, “ _I am an American, I am an ally, my name is Sergeant Barnes—”_

He gets no further before a blow to the cheek knocks him backward, lights exploding in front of his eyes. There is laughter, a man’s voice mocking his accented Russian.

He doesn’t try to speak to them again.

They feed him and give him water, and punch or kick him if he makes too much noise. He tries to be silent, but he is not always aware of what sounds he makes, when the pain makes him delirious.

He wakes whenever he hears the cell door open, and braces himself as best he can against their blows.

He wakes. His pants are soaked through; he doesn’t know when he soiled himself, how long he’s been lying in his own filth. He closes his eyes against the humiliation, and waits for the pain to carry him back into darkness.

He wakes.

He wakes.

He wakes.

Shouts. Bangs. Gunfire. ( _Ah,_ he thinks wisely _, this is a dream._ ) (He used to hear gunfire in his nightmares; now those nightmares are a welcome respite from reality). Voices close at hand.

The cell door squeaks open, and he curls in on himself beneath the blanket, trying to make himself small, to avoid their notice.

It never works, and it doesn’t work now; the blanket is drawn back from his face, a hand smooths back his hair, and _oh, this is still a dream_ , he thinks, because how else could Peggy Carter be leaning over him?

_You’re safe_ , she says, and _we’ve come to rescue you,_ but that can’t be right, that was in another life, when Steve…

“I’m dead,” he says, or thinks he says, and frowns at her, strangely heartbroken. “You’re dead too?”

“No,” she says, but he doesn’t believe her, until…

He doesn’t think a dead person could kiss him like _that._

He wakes, and it’s dark; they’re torturing him, and he wants his ma, wants so bad to be a child with a nightmare, to wake up and find this never happened…

“Bucky,” a familiar voice— _Ma?_ But that’s not right—he can’t make sense of it—

_“Bucky.”_

Ma, please, don’t let them do this, don’t let them hurt me, please, Ma…

They’re holding him down, and he won’t give in, won’t let them get the better of him, he’s “James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038, you _bastards!_ ” and they stab him with a needle, he won’t give in he won’t—

“Bucky”, and it’s Peggy, of course it’s Peggy, she came to rescue him—

No, that was Steve—

No again; it must have been a dream, all of it, he’s still on that table, being taken apart piece by piece…

Of course it was a dream, Steve could never have loved him, not like that, Steve’s not like that—

“It’s real,” says the hallucination. “It’s real, I’m not going anywhere.”

She’s stroking his cheek, and it feels nice, when nothing else they’ve done to him felt nice… and the pain is receding, slowly, leaving him exhausted and drowsy, floating on a gentle, warm tide…

It feels like waking, or like his eyes are suddenly focusing, when before all they could see was a shifting landscape of horrors.

“Peggy?”

“Yes, Bucky, it’s me.”

He feels an overwhelming surge of fondness; he wants to kiss her, but he can’t move his arms, and she refuses to lean down to him. Even his pouting doesn’t work, but she says, “We’ll see,” which really means _later_ , and…

He wakes to another injection, and the pain recedes, leaving him wrung out like a wet dish rag.

Peggy feeds him soup, and gives him water, and she doesn’t beat him or put him back in the cell, so that’s alright.

He wakes in cold, and snow, and they’ve got him strapped down, the cowards, and he struggles and screams insults at them until they cover his mouth, tense whispers of “avalanche” meaningless to his uncomprehending ears.

He wakes, and Peggy is feeding him soup again, lukewarm from being heated on an indifferent fire, and he has to piss, but he doesn’t want the men to see him like this—

Dugan and Franklin take him out behind the tent and wrestle down his pants. He doesn’t know whose hand is on his dick, and he doesn’t want to know; they all three stare straight ahead, mitigating the indignity by pretending it doesn’t exist.

It should be humiliating—it _is_ humiliating—but it takes so much effort just to stay upright, even with Dugan holding him up, that somehow he can’t find enough energy to care.

The damned Nazis have him again, and he comes up fighting, but he can’t move his arms, and the table is jolting and moving, and everything is so cold… Something pierces his arm, and he goes limp, unable to fight while Zola hovers over him, jeering….

It’s dark, and there’s a warm body pressed up against him, feminine curves and the faintest hint of lavender clinging still, despite the odors of sweat and unwashed wool layered over it. _Peggy_ , and she does kiss him then, softly, and holds him in her arms until he falls asleep…

It’s cold, and he’s falling, again and again and again, he tries to scream _Steve_ but there’s a hand over his mouth—he can’t move—he’s tied down—

_Shh_ , says Peggy, and he gasps against her hand, and she covers his mouth with hers until he can force himself silent…

It’s cold, and Dugan spreads his jacket over Bucky’s body, claiming that carrying the stretcher is keeping him warm. Bucky’s feeble protests are overruled, and he can’t deny that the extra warmth is welcome. He feels like he’ll never be warm again.

It’s freezing, and Steve pushes him out of the train. His face is cold and hard as winter, his blue eyes like chips of ice…

Steve rips off his face, revealing Zola’s cruel features beneath…

Steve straps him to a table…

_Shh,_ says Peggy, and her mouth is warm on his.

He wakes, head throbbing, and squints against the bright sunlight. They’re entering a village; he can see the picturesque European houses amidst their heaps of snow. The place is silent, like villages always are when troops come through; everyone is waiting to see what these soldiers want, what havoc they’ll wreak.

He has no idea where they are, even what country they’re in, but at least he can see Dugan’s broad, mustached face as he carries the foot of Bucky’s stretcher, and he can hear Peggy’s crisp voice giving orders out in front, so everything is probably alright.

The sun hurts his eyes, so he lets them fall closed…

He wakes. He’s lying in a real bed, with a feather tick and wooden bedframe, in a small room with a slanted ceiling. He can’t manage to get himself upright, but he can turn his head without too much pain; he sees a second bed, a pile of rucksacks on the floor, a rickety nightstand with an unlit lamp on it, and a window which lets in the purpling twilight.

_What day is it_? he wonders. He has no idea how long he spent in that hellhole, or what, if any, of what he remembers is real; the last memory he can count on is falling from the train, and clearly he’s no longer either in a cell or at the bottom of a ravine.

_Assuming this is real…_

But the bed smells of slightly musty feathers and old cotton, and his aches and pains are real enough, though slightly distant in a way that tells him he’s been drugged at some point. There’s a low murmur of voices from somewhere beyond the closed door, and the sound of footsteps getting nearer…

He barely has time to brace himself before the door opens, and Peggy enters, carrying a tray. She smiles when she sees him, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look so relieved.

“Oh good, you’re awake.”

“Hi,” he says, smiling back. Peggy is disheveled and wan, her pale face devoid of make-up, and she’s wearing bulky woolen trousers and a man’s sweater. She’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

“Cat got your tongue?” she teases, setting the tray on the nightstand. The smell of something savory wafts toward him.

“No, but you could,” he says, trying to cock his head without hurting his neck. “If you play your cards right.”

She sits down on the side of the bed, her expression soft and fond. “Is that the best you can do? You’re losing your touch.”

“Have a heart, Peggy,” he protests. “I’m only just woke up. Woken? Wakened. Wo—”

“You’re worrying about the wrong word. It’s the ‘I’m’ that’s the problem,” she tells him, leaning closer. “I can explain in detail, if you like.”

“I can… think of things I’d like better…” He manages, and then she’s kissing him.

It’s better than anything a hallucination could come up with; her mouth is warm and soft and possessive, one hand cupping his cheek., the other stroking his hair. She holds him like something precious, like a treasure stolen and recovered, like a lost lover returned beyond all hope or expectation…

A tear rolls down his cheek, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s hers.

He has never seen her cry before; there’s not a general in America or Britain as tough as Peggy.

“Peggy,” he whispers. “Peggy, honey, it’s alright.”

“We thought you _died_ , damn it,” she snaps through her tears. “God, Barnes, don’t you ever do that again.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” he says, and she pretends to swat him. With an effort, he drags his hand from beneath the blankets, and lays it on her lower back. “Darling, I’m sorry. Don’t cry, I’m alright now.”

“I know,” she says, breath hitching. “I know, I know, I’m being stupid, I’m sorry…”

He can’t pull her to him like he normally would, so he just rubs her back. “It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s alright.”

“You can’t die on us,” she whispers. “We’re almost through, they’re saying it’ll be over by the end of the year. You can’t die on us now.”

“I was doing my job, Peg,” he says gently. “It’s part of war, darling, I never expected to make it this far.”

As soon as it’s out of his mouth, he regrets it; Peggy and Steve aren’t like him, they still believe in the future, in a life after the war. But Bucky… he’s had death hovering at his shoulder since he shipped out.

There’s a short silence. Then…

“Do you want to die, Bucky?” Her voice is quiet, conversational, but he knows her well enough to see the restraint she’s using.

“No,” he says slowly. “No, I just… didn’t ever think I’d make it out, you know? And it was easier just to… accept that and get on with things. As long as Steve survives—” He stops, but he might as well have finished the thought; he can see that she knows what he was going to say.

“You are not an acceptable loss, Bucky Barnes,” she hisses. “We _love_ you, do you understand? Do you know what losing you would do to us? I can’t—” She takes a breath, rubs her hand over her face. “Steve wouldn’t survive losing you. It would be like losing a lung, or half of his heart. He couldn’t stand it.”

“But he’d have you.”

“Sometimes,” she says irritably, “You are unbelievably thick.” She picks up the soup bowl, and holds a spoonful to his mouth. “You’d better eat, before this gets cold.”

Bucky opens up obediently, and swallows the mouthful. It’s beef stew, heavy on broth and light on meat the way everything is these days, rationed to Hell and back. Some of the other guys complain about the stinginess of Army rations, but he and Steve have long been used to stretching cheap meat as far as it will go.

“He needs you,” she says softly. “We both do.”

“I need you, too,” he tells her—probably redundantly, since she’s literally spoon-feeding him.

“I know,” says Peggy, sighing, and gives him more soup.

“There is something I need to discuss with you,” she says, when he’s finished eating.

Bucky, who had been drifting away under the influence of food and warmth, returns to wakefulness with a start. “What is it?”

She’s biting her lip, and in the moment before she speaks, he has time to go through a hundred unpleasant scenarios—Steve is missing, Steve is dead, Peggy and Steve are breaking things off with him, Peggy is pregnant, Steve is hurt…

“How much do you remember of the last few days?”

“It’s… sort of hazy,” he admits. “Did… I remember you said… Steve’s on a mission?”

“Yes, that’s right. Don’t worry about him—he’ll be alright. He _promised_ to keep himself safe for us,” she adds, with a fierceness that says he’d _better._ “No, it’s not about that. Do you remember me kissing you?”

“Ye-ess,” he says slowly, sorting through his disordered memories. “I mean, I’m not sure… when you first found me, that was real, right?”

Her expression turns pained. “Yes, darling.”

“And in the tent?”

“Yes.”

“And when I was on the table…” He trails off, closing his eyes. “There wasn’t a table, was there.”

“I think that was a nightmare,” she says carefully.

He starts to nod, then stops because it still hurts to move. “Okay. I think I’ve got it.”

“The first time I kissed you, when we first found you,” she continues, “Dugan saw.”

“…Oh.”

“And then—later, you were having a nightmare, and when you woke up you were—disoriented—”

“Oh, no.”

“You didn’t do anything untoward,” she assures him. “But you, er, made some comments that… could be misconstrued.”

“What did I give away?” he asks resignedly.

“Not much, but I believe the men think you and I are—er—cheating on Steve.”

“Great.”

“Precisely.” She taps her fingers on her leg, frowning. “The problem is that we can’t simply address their theories head on, unless they accuse one of us outright—and that’s unlikely to happen.”

“Well, we sure as hell can’t tell ‘em the truth.”

She snorts. “No, certainly not.”

Bucky leans back against the pillows with a sigh. He’s so tired. “This gonna screw up your career?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know how much trouble I’ll be in when I get back—I undertook the mission on Steve’s orders, but the chain of command is a bit… _murky_ where I’m concerned; technically I answer to Phillips, not him, but Steve outranks me, so… I’m hoping that the information we recovered is enough to appease him—and the fact that you’re alive, of course.”

“Wait…” says Bucky slowly. “Were you… did you do all this… just to find _me_?”

She looks at him like he’s got two heads. “Of course. Did you think we just found you by _accident?_ ”

“I… sorta…” He shifts, trying to get comfortable, and a spike of pain shoots up his side. The morphine is clearly wearing off. “I thought you were looking for HYDRA bases.”

“We had no idea there _was_ a HYDRA base there. We certainly didn’t know they were working with the Soviets.”

“That oughta brighten Phillips’s day,” he murmurs. “You… you really did all this for me?”

“I really did all this for you, Bucky,” says Peggy gently. She takes his hand in her own calloused palm. “Steve wanted to go himself, but I convinced him he needed to get Zola back to base. If Schmidt is planning something soon, they’ll need him. If I hadn’t promised to find you, I don’t think anything would have stopped him from searching for you himself.”

“How… how’d you know I was alive?”

“The serum,” she says, lowering her voice further. “You said you’d noticed changes—that you were stronger, healed faster. I thought—if it was anything like Steve’s—there was a chance you might have survived.” She pauses. “I knew it wasn’t _likely_ , but I couldn’t leave you—not if there was any hope at all.”

Bucky squeezes her hand, words failing him. She makes a soft sound, and takes out her handkerchief again to wipe the tears from the corners of his eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

He clears his throat and sniffs. “I love you,” he says hoarsely. “And talkin’ to you about Steve was the best decision I ever made.”

“I love you, too.” She kisses him on the forehead, and wipes his eyes again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry… Let me help you lie down again, you’re exhausted. We can talk more tomorrow.”

“What’re we gonna tell the guys?” he asks muzzily. She’s right; the exhaustion is tugging at him more fiercely now, pulling him under whether he wills or no.

Peggy adjusts the pillows, helping him to slide down so he’s flat on his back. “I’ll think of something. Just… if someone says something, you won’t be caught off-guard.”

“I’ll pretend I don’t remember,” he says, yawning. “’nd you can say you just were… y’know, overwhelmed with pity, ‘r somethin’.”

“Hmm,” she says, and that’s the last thing he hears before he drifts off again.

He is woken again sometime later by the pain in his leg and ribs. By this time, the room is fully occupied, with Peggy in the second bed, and a man in a sleeping bag on the floor.

Bucky tries to lie quietly and focus on something other than the pain, but it’s hard to ignore the sharp throbbing in his leg, or the stabbing sensation every time he draws a breath. The stump of his arm throbs too, in counterpoint to the other pains, and he must make some sound, because the lump on the floor stirs, the lamp flickers on, and a vaguely familiar face looms into view.

“Pain level?” the man says, pulling something out of the bag by his side.

“Hurts,” Bucky rasps. “A lot.”

“I’m gonna give you another morphine injection. That gonna be a problem?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay, hold still.”

The man pushes up Bucky’s right sleeve, pulling his arm closer to the light, then stabs the needle into the inside of Bucky’s elbow.

Bucky takes a fast, panicked breath, and grits his teeth, holding as still as he can while the man depresses the plunger.

Then it’s all over, the man withdrawing the syringe and replacing it with a bandage before he pulls Bucky’s sleeve back down.

“There,” he says. “It’ll take a few minutes to kick in; if it still hurts in half an hour, wake me up.” He pauses, peering at Bucky’s face. “You know who I am?”

Bucky frowns, uncertain. He knows he should know this, but…

“George Franklin, medic. You can call me Franklin, or you can call me Doc—I’ll answer to either. Now get some rest, you hear?”

“Yes, sir—Doc.”

“Atta boy,” he says, and gives Bucky a friendly pat on the shoulder on his way back to his bedroll.

Bucky carefully moves his arm back under the bedclothes, and waits—but it really is only a few minutes before the morphine kicks in, and he drops quickly into a sound sleep.

[1] Who are you?

[2] American

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "In Western Lands", by J.R.R. Tolkien  
> Thanks so much for the comments, everyone! They really brighten my day. :)


	5. Take Off Your Thirsty Boots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for medical trauma.   
> Thank you, everyone, for your kind comments! I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)

_You've long been on the open road  
You been sleepin' in the rain  
From dirty words and muddy cells  
Your clothes are soiled and stained  
But the dirty words and the muddy cells  
Will soon be hid in shame  
So only stop to rest yourself and you'll go off again_

_So take off your thirsty boots  
And stay for awhile  
Your feet are hot and weary  
From a dusty mile  
And maybe I can make you laugh  
And maybe I can try  
I'm just lookin' for the evenin'  
And the mornin' in your eyes_

_\--“Thirsty Boots”, Eric Andersen_

It’s just after dawn when Peggy wakes to the unmistakable whine of a fighter plane flying low overhead. Hurriedly, she scrambles out of bed, thrusts her feet into her boots without bothering to tie them, and snatches up her coat on the way out the door. Mackenzie appears from the other room just as she reaches the head of the stairs; wordlessly, he follows her into the deserted dining room of the inn, and out into the pale light of early morning.

Singh had been on watch; he’s standing just outside the door, rifle relaxed in his grip. “It’s alright,” he tells them. “It is one of Stark’s.”

He points, and Peggy follows the gesture with her eyes; yes, there’s the plane, taxiing to a stop in the field below the village, and there’s no mistaking the bulky outline of one of Stark’s modified Black Widows, which are faster and have more carrying capacity than the original model. She doesn’t breathe a sigh of relief, but she can feel the tension in her shoulders ease, as though a physical weight has been lifted.

The door behind them opens again; this time, it’s the innkeeper and his wife, bundled up in winter coats above their nightclothes.

“ _It is safe_ ,” Peggy says in German, before either can say anything. “ _It is one of ours. I will go and talk to him now_.”

“ _You are sure_?” the innkeeper asks. “ _I_ _f HYDRA found out we helped you_ …”

“ _If we are successful, there will be no HYDRA to find out_ ,” says Peggy, in what she hopes is a reassuring tone. Switching to English, she adds to the other two, “Singh, can you mind the fort here? I’d better go down to them. Mackenzie, with me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they chorus, and Mackenzie falls in line with her.

She wasn’t expecting Howard to come in person, and she was right: the pilots are two of his protégés, part of the small group allowed to fly his personal planes. Peggy recognizes them both: as a woman usually surrounded by men, she had made a point of getting to know the other female agents in the SSR if she got the chance, and so had met Jill Cooley and Maria Carbonell when Phillips first recruited them from the WASPs.

Jill, a stocky blonde woman with a gift for emergency takeoffs and landings, waves a hand as Peggy comes up to them.

“Howdy,” she says cheerfully. “Are we taking off right away, or sticking around awhile?”

“Good morning,” replies Peggy. “There’s no hurry, unless you’re needed back urgently. I’d rather wait ‘til dusk, so we’ll have less chance of being seen when we go over the German lines.”

“Safer that way,” Maria agrees. Though only nineteen, she’s an experienced pilot, thanks to years spent flying the deserts and canyons of Arizona in her father’s ancient Sopwith Camel. “It’s safe here?”

“Safe enough. Oh, where are my manners—Mackenzie, these are Agents Jill Cooley and Maria Carbonell. Agents, Private Thomas Mackenzie.”

Introductions made and hands shaken, Jill returns to practicalities. “If we’re staying all day, then we’d better cover this up.”

“Need a hand?”

“Please. Oh—and we’ve got more provisions for your villagers. We’ll hand ‘em down to you.”

Once the crates have been unloaded, the pilots fetch a couple of canvas sheets from the hold, painted with white and grey camouflage to blend in with the mountainside, and the four of them tie the canvas over the top of the plane. If anyone sees it from afar, it should look like nothing more than another lump of snow-covered rock; hopefully no one will think to take a closer look.

This done, they begin the short ascent back up to the village. There’s rather a larger crowd awaiting them than Peggy might have hoped, most of them wary, many downright fearful.

She repeats her reassurances that these are friends, that there is no reason to fear attack, and that she and the others will leave very soon; but she has a feeling that the extra crates of provisions have more to do with calming them than any speech of hers. This is the hardest time of year, she knows, for anyone who depends on the land for much of their sustenance, and the SSR’s preserved meat and beans will go a long way toward keeping starvation at bay.

When the Austrians have dispersed, Davies has taken over the watch, and the pilots have settled in with coffee and breakfast, Peggy goes back to the room she’s sharing with Bucky and Franklin.

They’re both awake; in fact, Franklin appears to be almost finished with changing Bucky’s bandages. There’s a bucket of bloodstained cloth on the floor beside the bed, and Bucky has the half-pained, half-dazed expression that means he’s had another dose of morphine.

“Peggy?” he says, when she enters, and her heart squeezes with dread. If she has to explain that she’s not a hallucination again….

“Yes?”

“We heard… the plane,” he says, with apparent effort. “Is everything… okay?”

She exhales, relieved. “Yes, it was one of ours—they’re taking us back to base.”

“Now?”

“No, later today—you’ve got plenty of time to rest up.”

“You shouldn’t stall on my account,” he says immediately, and Peggy bites back a smile. Even injured and drugged to the gills, Bucky doesn’t change. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know,” she says. “But we want to wait until sunset—that way, we’ve less chance of being spotted on the way home.”

“Oh.” He frowns, then winces as Franklin begins winding a clean bandage around the stump of his arm. “But is it safe?”

“To stay here so long, you mean? Yes. We’ve covered the planes and bribed the villagers; we’ll be safe as houses, as long as we don’t overstay our welcome,” she says cheerfully.

Bucky nods, and stares at the blankets for a few seconds, fingers picking at the worn fabric. Then he looks up, brow wrinkled. “I don’t know where we are,” he says.

“We’re still in Austria.”

“But that’s… Nazis…”

“Yes, but we _are_ safe here. Trust me, Bucky.”

He stares at her for another long moment, and Peggy wonders just how _much_ morphine Franklin has had to give him, to get through cleaning and rebandaging everything.

“Okay,” he says at last, and lets his head fall back against the pillows, apparently exhausted.

“If you’re quite finished with the debrief,” says Franklin acerbically, “You might get one of the boys to help me change his clothes.”

“I c’n… do it myself,” Bucky protests, unconvincingly.

“No, you can’t,” Franklin tells him. “You just sit there and let us take care of you. Probably best to have Dugan do it,” he adds to Peggy.

She hesitates. “I can help—”

“No. It was one thing back there, when he was half out of his mind and needed you there anyway, but now—it’s not decent.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but he cuts across her. “Look, whatever’s between the two of you is your business. But you of all people should know how it looks—and you know how people talk.”

He’s right, and she knows it. “Very well,” she says, with an effort. “I’ll get Dugan. And… thank you.”

Franklin merely grimaces, so Peggy collects her own change of clothes and leaves.

They fly out that evening, crammed like sardines into the hold, with Singh playing gunner. Franklin’s just about out of morphine, so Bucky declines another dose. He spends most of the journey with his jaw clenched, making no sound despite the fact that he is clearly in pain.

Luckily, the plane journey is only a little over an hour; an hour during which Bucky grows steadily paler, leaning ever more heavily against Peggy’s side and breathing hard through gritted teeth. Peggy has never been so glad to hear the pilots radioing the airfield for permission to land.

Once they’ve landed, Dugan carries Bucky out in his arms; they find a group of agents with a stretcher and a truck waiting for them, and Peggy recognizes Benson, one of the men who had gone back with Steve.

“Are there any orders for us?” she asks him, while Dugan carefully transfers Bucky to the stretcher.

“Yes, ma’am. Colonel Phillips says to wait at headquarters here, unless you’ve got injured men, in which case you’re to take them to Leghorn.”

“Is Phillips at headquarters?” she asks sharply.

“No, ma’am. He left yesterday, with Captain Rogers and most of the agents.”

“I see.” So their interrogation of Zola must have borne fruit. She only hopes Steve will keep his promise, and avoid getting himself killed on this mission. “Excuse me one moment, please.”

She walks over to Franklin, who is crouched beside Bucky’s stretcher asking him questions in a low voice.

“Phillips is away from headquarters at the moment,” she tells him. “We’ve been instructed to carry on to Leghorn if Bucky’s injured—should we attempt to go tonight, or had we better wait ‘til morning?”

“Wait for morning,” he responds promptly. “He needs rest and food right now; another journey tonight will only set him back. There’s enough room at HQ, isn’t there?”

“More than enough, I should think. Very well; we’ll leave in the morning.” She raises her voice. “Sergeant Benson, if your men could fetch our baggage from the plane for us, we’d be much obliged.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers; then, to the others, “You heard the lady, let’s move!”

In short order, they’ve loaded themselves and their gear into the truck for the ride back to SSR headquarters.

Their ride out the next morning is marginally better than the rest of their journey so far; an Army truck is an improvement over slogging through the snow, at least, but every bump and jolt is obviously hell for Bucky, and Franklin is completely out of morphine. The roads are in terrible condition, between the bombing, the use from heavy trucks, tanks, and artillery, and the usual effects of winter. Their way is also crowded with army vehicles headed for the front, and trucks and ambulances full of supplies and wounded men traveling toward Leghorn. They’re forced to keep to a crawling pace, rarely making it above twenty miles an hour, and often slowing down to ten or even five. It’s a wretched day for travel, too; windy, overcast, and threatening rain, with the kind of damp chill that seeps into your bones and stays there.

The only bright spot is that Bucky _is_ on the mend, though heaven only knows how; the swelling on his face has gone down, the cuts and gashes are no longer red and inflamed, and even the stump of his arm looks better. Added to this, he is finally entirely rational, aware of his surroundings and able to understand what is happening to him.

He can’t help wincing when the truck lurches or jolts, but he never makes a sound of complaint, his face set and pale lips pressed together.

His stoicism at least earns him the respect of the other men; Peggy can tell they’re impressed with all he’s survived, and that they’ve become invested in his continued survival. Without any prompting on her part, they go out of their way to cheer him up, giving him pieces of their chocolate rations, offering him extra jumpers and blankets, and telling jokes and stories to keep him mind off the pain.

Bucky gives back as good as he gets, telling jokes at his own expense, stubbornly attempting to do as much for himself as he can, and worrying over whether everyone else has enough to eat and drink, and whether they’re warm enough.

“I appreciate it, fellas, but I’m okay,” he keeps saying. “Just ‘cause I’m injured doesn’t mean I need to be stealin’ your rations.”

“Shut up and let us take care of you, Sarge,” Dugan finally says, exasperated, and Bucky reluctantly obeys.

Eight hours later, they finally make it to the hospital at Leghorn, where the main concentration of the Allied forces’ medical staff are headquartered.

The hospital is, in its way, as much an ordeal as anything else they’ve faced. Bucky is clearly terrified, flinching from the doctors and their medical equipment, and hyperventilating when they get him onto a gurney. Peggy insists on staying with him, and is quite certain it’s the only thing keeping him from attempting to bolt, broken leg or no.

His leg has started to heal wrong, and they have to put it in traction in order to set it. The sound of Bucky’s screams when they reset the bone are going to echo in Peggy's nightmares for a long time.

The amputated arm, they tell her, is healing well, and so are his ribs; the fractured pelvis is more difficult, since they can’t exactly put it in a cast. The doctor recommends bed rest, and forbids Bucky from attempting to walk for the next six weeks, at least.

“No more ziplines for you, Sarge,” says Dugan, and Bucky manages a weak smile.

“Now, that’s a shame. I was just gettin’ the hang of it.”

Peggy tries not to hover, especially because she knows the men are watching her every move with suspicion. While her sharing a tent with Bucky had made sense when he was hallucinating—in fact, it had been Franklin’s suggestion, as she was the only person Bucky could be counted on to recognize—they need to be much more careful now.

When Bucky and she continue to be friendly, but not overly so, with each other, most of the men seem to lose interest in their relationship; there are fewer sideways glances and pointed silences, fewer murmurings when they think she’s out of hearing. From a couple overheard comments, she manages to gather that Bucky’s reputation as a flirt has saved them from too much scrutiny; Bucky seems to have encouraged the idea that his words had been meaningless and automatic, a product of his delirium.

Franklin, as Peggy is aware from prior missions, is supremely uninterested in other people’s personal business, and hasn’t so much as hinted at Peggy’s feelings for Bucky since that day at the inn. He behaves just as he always does, brusque and business-like, concerned only with his patient and whether they’ll be shipped back to England.

Dugan gives Peggy the cold shoulder, but doesn’t say anything to her, and seems not to have said anything to the others. She’s not sure why, unless his friendship with Bucky conflicts with his loyalty to Steve —or perhaps he’s protecting the privacy of both his friends.

Either way, she is grateful for their silence; if she wants to have a career once the war is over, she needs to maintain at least a veneer of respectability.

***

The day after the doctors set Bucky’s leg, Dugan shows up in Bucky’s corner of the crowded hospital, looking unusually serious. He sits down on a camp stool next to him and lowers his voice, giving them a semblance of privacy.

“How ya feeling, Barnes?”

“Not so bad,” Bucky lies. The doctors are rationing his morphine, and his whole body aches dully. “How about you?”

“I’m fine.”

There’s a short, awkward pause, in which Dugan just looks at him.

“Look, if you got something to say, say it,” says Bucky irritably. “I’m not lyin’ here just so people can come and stare at me.”

“You kissed Carter,” says Dugan, blunt as usual. “You know I like you, Sarge, and with anyone else I’d be behind you all the way, but… _hell_ , Barnes.”

“Dum Dum, I wasn’t in my right mind,” Bucky snaps. “I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, P—Carter said I was hallucinating—”

“Bullshit,” Dugan says stubbornly. “The way she looked at you—”

“I can’t help how she looks—”

“Look, I’m not stupid, okay? How long have you two been fucking behind Cap’s back?”

That shuts Bucky up. He turns his head away to hide his expression, trying to think of what excuse he can make that won’t ruin Peggy’s reputation or out him and Steve.

“I mean, she’s a hell of woman, sure, but she’s _Steve’s sweetheart,_ Barnes. He wants to _marry_ her, everyone knows it. You’re supposed to be his best friend, and you’re sneaking around with her—”

“Steve knows,” says Bucky harshly. He closes his eyes, takes a rapid breath. “I wouldn’t go behind his back with something like that, _Jesus,_ Dugan.”

Dugan folds his arms, not buying it for a second. “Oh yeah, and he’s fine with you sticking your—”

“I’m not sticking it _anywhere_ , Dugan, for God’s sake,” Bucky says irritably. “Steve and Peg—they’re a sure thing. I’m not—I’m not barging in where they don’t want me, I…” He pauses, tries to think this through, how to avoid confessing anything dangerous. “Steve and I have always, uh, we’re used to sharing everything. And Steve—it was Steve’s idea, that, he knew I liked Peggy, and she liked me—not as much as him, obviously—and it just… we figured, no need for jealousy, or, or making ourselves unhappy about it, and if we all were okay with it, what’s the harm?”

“So you’re both fucking her.”

“Kissing,” Bucky corrects firmly. “She’s a goddamn lady, Dugan, don’t you go getting ideas about her.”

“You seriously want me to believe you’re not—”

“ _Yes_ ,” growls Bucky.

“This was really Steve’s idea?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Of course it was. _I_ never woulda come up with a fool plan like that, much less suggested it.”

“Fuck,” says Dugan, half shocked, half admiring. “I never woulda thought he had it in ‘im.”

“Oh, but you’d believe it of me?”

“I’d believe _anything_ of you, Barnes.”

“Fuck off,” says Bucky grumpily, but it’s all for show; inside, he’s just about dying with relief. _Dugan’s buying it._ _I can’t believe he’s buying it._

“Look,” he says after a minute, “I know people are probably talkin’…”

“How’d you guess?”

“Fuck you. Anyhow, if you could just, um, imply… I mean, that it was one-sided, and Peggy was takin’ pity on me… She doesn’t need more on her plate right now.”

Dugan shakes his head. “You and Rogers sure do like the white-knight routine, don’t you?”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yeah, but… Jeez, Barnes, what’re you gonna do when he marries her?”

Bucky feels his heart twist. He gives his best, cocksure smile and raises an eyebrow. “Plenty of girls in Brooklyn, Dum Dum. I ain’t ready to settle down yet.”

Dugan gives him a look that’s uncomfortably close to pity, but thankfully doesn’t say anything further about it. Instead, he pulls a pack of cards out of his jacket pocket and lays them on the bed. “Think you can still play Rummy with one hand?”

“The day I can’t beat you at Rummy is the day I die,” says Bucky, trying to keep the relief from his face. “Deal ‘em out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Thirsty Boots" by Eric Andersen.   
> Jill Cooley is an OC; Maria Carbonell is the future Maria Stark (although she and Howard are not in a romantic relationship in this fic).  
> The Northrop P-61 Black Widow was built as a night fighter, and was the first plane designed to use radar, but didn't get much use until the end of the war. They were highly maneuverable, but were somewhat lacking in speed compared to the Mosquito (i.e. why Howard has made modifications). They were normally crewed by a pilot, gunner, and radar operator; in this fic, members of the ground team fill in as gunners, as the point of the mission is stealth rather than fighting.   
> Leghorn (the Anglicized name for Livorno) was the biggest fixed hospital in Italy in March 1944, and was comprised of a group of hospitals stationed in Livorno.


	6. Bed of Nails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all your kind comments! I hope you enjoy this chapter.

_See the stone set in your eyes_   
_See the thorn twist in your side_   
_I wait for you_

_Sleight of hand and twist of fate_   
_On a bed of nails she makes me wait_   
_And I wait without you_

_\--"With or Without You", U2_

Three days after their arrival at Leghorn, a telegram arrives from Phillips: MISSION SUCCESSFUL STOP REMAIN AT PRESENT LOCATION STOP AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.

Peggy reads it, scowling, and hands it off to Dugan. “So we’re to stay here, without any notion of how it went—”

“He said it was successful,” Dugan says mildly. For some reason, he seems to have warmed up to her again; she suspects Bucky had a hand in that, though she hasn’t been alone with him to ask.

“Yeah, but Steve coulda done something stupid,” says Bucky. He reaches for the telegram, impatient, and flips it over as if there might be some secret message on the back. “And the rest of ‘em—any of them coulda been injured, or…”

“He would have said if someone was killed, surely,” Singh says. He’s sitting at the foot of Bucky’s bed, darning socks; Mackenzie and Davies have bribed him with chocolate and chewing gum to do theirs as well as his.

“Not if it’s classified.”

Peggy sighs, taking back the telegram and folding it into her pocket. “Well, there’s no point in borrowing trouble, I suppose. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

The next day, more casualties from the SSR arrive at the hospital, along with a fresh crop of rumors. Some of them can be dismissed out of hand—for example, the tale that Captain America has crossed into Germany to kill Hitler—but there are others, more plausible, floating around: that Red Skull is dead, that _Captain America_ is dead, that Captain America was injured, that the Red Skull was captured, that Captain America was captured…

Any of these could be true, or none of them, and it’s difficult to know what to believe; everyone seems to have different versions of whatever it was that happened on this most recent mission.

Peggy tries to keep the worst of the rumors from Bucky’s ears, but that doesn’t stop him from fretting endlessly.

“There’s gotta be something,” he says, for about the tenth time that day. “I’m his next of kin, anyway, I oughta get notified—”

“They won’t notify you if there’s nothing wrong,” replies Peggy, also for the tenth time. “Just try to relax, alright? We’ll find out soon enough.”

“Look, I heard a bunch of our guys are at the 12th General,” Dugan puts in. “I probably know a few of them. I’ll go over and see if they’ve got any more idea of what’s going on than we do.”

Bucky perks up immediately. “Would you? It just seems like there must be _something_ —”

“Yeah, of course,” he says reassuringly. Turning to Peggy, he offers a jaunty salute. “I’ll leave him in your capable hands, Agent Carter.”

Peggy stares after his retreating back, too startled to make any sort of reply. “Bucky,” she says after a moment. “What on earth did you tell him?”

He grimaces, glancing at the empty bed next to them before saying in a low voice, “I told him you were Steve’s gal, through and through, but Steve didn’t mind sharing every now and again, for dancin’ and so forth.”

“Please tell me you’re not under the impression that that was _helpful._ ”

“It’s better than him thinking you’re cheating on Steve,” he protests. “And I told him we didn’t get up to any funny business; that you’re a lady and wouldn’t stand for it.”

Peggy hides her face in her hands and groans. “Bucky Barnes, you’re going to be the death of me.”

_Okay, so maybe spilling the beans to Dugan wasn’t the best idea…_

“I didn’t know what else to say,” says Bucky wretchedly. “He wasn’t going to accept that it was a mistake, and I figured it would be worse for him to think we were going behind Steve’s back—and at least he’s not giving you the cold shoulder, anymore.”

“I don’t care what Dugan thinks. But if it gets around that I’m involved with both of you, it could invite disrespect from the other agents—and Phillips will think I’m just another feckless girl getting tugged around by her heartstrings—that I’m incapable of making logical, tactical decisions. He gave me enough grief when I helped Steve go AWOL to find you the first time.”

Bucky hadn’t even thought of that—he’d been thinking about her reputation in social terms, not about how Phillips would see it. “I asked him not to tell the other guys,” he offers. “And I don’t think he has. They think I just flirt with any woman I see.”

“I’d noticed,” she says drily, and he flushes.

He’s made an effort to flirt with the nurses impartially, building on his reputation as a lady’s man to make his and Peggy’s indiscretion seem like mere meaningless banter. He doesn’t like it; it feels too much like really cheating, especially since he can tell Peggy isn’t too happy about it, either—but if it’s that or fending off rumors of betraying Steve, he knows which he’ll pick.

“I’m not interested in any of them, Pegs,” he says softly, mindful of the man apparently sleeping two beds over. “And none of them are interested in me—I wouldn’t do it, if they were. I—”

“Bucky, it’s alright,” she says with a sigh. “Truly, I understand. I don’t like it, but—well, this is the hand we’ve got, and you’re doing the best you can.” She pauses. “Although you might be wrong—Betty might fall for you, yet.”

Bucky grins. Betty is the oldest and dourest of the nurses, and therefore the one he’s spent the most effort trying to charm. She meets all his quips and compliments with a “Hmph” and a shake of her head, and occasionally threatens to whack him for insolence. “She’ll warm up to me eventually.”

“I hope so. It’s painful to see you throwing yourself at her so shamelessly.”

“Doll, I’m bedbound,” he drawls. “I’m not throwing myself anywhere.”

“And you’d better not, either. I didn’t get you all the way here for you to—” She breaks off, eyes widening, and Bucky turns to see what she’s looking at.

The ward they’re in is large, and crowded. Bucky’s bed is in the corner farthest from the door, and he’s used to the sound of people going in and out in the background; he hadn’t noticed yet another person entering the ward. He notices him now, though; there’s no mistaking those broad shoulders as he weaves between the beds, though the limping gait and bandaged head are unfamiliar.

“ _Steve_ ,” he breathes, and Peggy stands abruptly, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides.

And then—Steve is there, steps quickening, and there’s an expression on his face that Bucky has never seen before—something wild and desperate, a sort of furious joy that lights all that is visible of his face.

“Bucky,” he says, and his tone is almost reverent, relief clear in every line of his features. “Peggy. Thank God.”

Bucky’s joy at seeing him alive is immediately tempered by worry; Steve’s left eye is covered with a bandage, the whole side of his face swollen and bruised, and he’s avoiding putting weight on his left leg.

“What happened to you?” he demands.

“Schmidt roughed me up a little,” says Steve dismissively, sitting on the side of Bucky’s bed and taking his hand between his own. “What about you, how are you? All they told me was that you’re alive, and that you lost…” He trails off, nodding toward Bucky’s left side.

“Well, those are probably the most important bits.”

Steve just looks at him entreatingly, and Bucky finds that one eye is just as effective as two when Steve uses that expression.

With a sigh, he gives way. “When I fell, I broke my leg in two places, fractured my pelvis, broke a coupla ribs, and hit my head… and obviously, there was my arm. And then HYDRA found me.”

“ _Bucky_ ,” says Steve, anguished.

“They, ah, weren’t too pleasant,” he says, attempting to gloss over the whole nasty business. “And they amputated my arm. It gets kinda hazy after that—”

“He was rather out of it when we found him,” Peggy puts in, sitting back down on Bucky’s other side. “But the doctors said he’ll make a full recovery.”

“Thank you,” says Steve, voice trembling with sincerity. “Thank you so much for finding him—for bringing him home, when—when I didn’t—”

“You don’t have to thank me,” she responds quickly. “One of us had to, and you couldn’t, so I did. You don’t have to do everything all by yourself, Steve.”

“I’ve been telling him that for ages,” Bucky grumbles. “He never listens.”

“Because you’re _my responsibility_ , Buck!” Steve almost-snaps. “I should’ve looked out for you—I should have caught you. Hell, I shouldn’t’ve even made you come along in the first place. God, I’m so, so sorry—”

“You didn’t make me do anything,” retorts Bucky. “I said I’d follow you, and I meant it. I knew what I was getting into, more than you did when you climbed into that damned machine.”

Steve groans. “Aw, don’t start that again, Buck.”

“Then don’t _you_ start,” says Bucky. “There’s enough trouble in the world without you takin’ it all on your own shoulders. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m still sorry,” he says stubbornly.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine, you can make it up to me with your cigarette ration.”

“I already give you my cigarette ration.”

“Well, then, you can shine my shoes. Anyway, what happened to _you_? What happened to your eye?”

Steve sighs, but accepts the change of topic. “Schmidt punched me,” he explains. “Broke my orbital socket. The doctors had to do surgery, to get the bone shards out, and put in pins so my cheek won’t be sunken in. They said if I were a normal person, I’d be sure to lose sight in that eye, but with the serum…” He spreads his hands. “I might get it back, or… I might not.”

His voice is steady, careless, even, like it doesn’t matter. Bucky knows how much it matters.

“I’m sorry, Stevie,” he says quietly.

Steve shakes his head. “It’s not so bad. I mean, not compared to—” He breaks off, awkward.

“Me?” Bucky finishes. “What, is this a competition, now?”

“I didn’t mean it like that—”

“You’re allowed to be upset, Steve,” says Bucky, rolling his eyes. “I thought you’d learned that by now.”

“I just don’t mean to go moaning and complaining when I’m still better off than a lot of other people,” says Steve mulishly.

“We can argue about it later,” Peggy says, with an impatient wave of her hand. “Steve, what happened? There are rumors going about that you were captured—”

“I was,” he says. “I mean, it was the only way we could think of to get in—”

Bucky sits straight up, eyes widening. “Steven Grant Rogers, tell me you weren’t _planning_ on getting beaten up.”

“Of course not!” says Steve, with far more indignation than is warranted, considering the stunts he’s pulled in the past. “I mean, me getting captured, that was part of the plan, ‘cause we didn’t know exactly where Schmidt would be and we had to take him out first, but I figured he’d grandstand a little before he did anything—you saw how he was at Kreischberg, he’s definitely the gloating type.”

“I’ll give you that,” Bucky agrees, amused despite himself.

“Anyway, him hitting me came out of nowhere—I didn’t even mouth off to him or nothing,” he says in an aggrieved tone.

“I’m sure we all admire your restraint,” says Peggy sarcastically. “Do you want a medal?”

“Think I’m gonna get one, anyway,” he says, with a smirk that shows off a broken tooth.

“So what _did_ you say?” Bucky asks.

“Well… he was going on and on about Americans being arrogant and whatnot, and then he asked what made me so special, and I said I’m not, I’m just a kid from Brooklyn, and…” He mimes a punch. “Wham. Knocked me right on my ass.”

“Steve,” says Peggy, then gives a most un-Peggy-like giggle. “Oh dear, I can’t—It’s not really funny—” she gasps, “But you couldn’t have insulted him better if you tried, and you didn’t even realize—oh!” Another fit of hilarity overtakes her, and she covers her mouth with her hand, laughing helplessly.

Bucky exchanges a shrug with Steve, then instantly regrets it as his neck, shoulder, and ribs protest.

“You want to share the joke with us, Pegs?” Steve asks.

“Alright—yes, yes, of course—” She takes a few deep breaths, clearly trying to get ahold of herself. “Alright. So. You know Dr. Erskine was Schmidt’s captive for some time, right? And Schmidt kept trying to force Erskine to give him the serum, and Erskine refused. He told Schmidt that he was not worthy of the serum. So when he asked you that, it wasn’t just a rhetorical question—he was asking what made you worthy to Erskine, when he was not. And to be told you were _‘nothing special’_ ”—she sketches air-quotes with her fingers—“as though some random boy from a tenement in Brooklyn was better than he was—oh, it must have been a terrible blow to his ego.”

Steve’s mouth tilts upward in a sardonic grin. “Well, he didn’t have long to suffer. Jones shot him right in the head, neat as you please.”

“Good,” says Bucky viciously. “Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving guy.”

“I’m just glad he’s dead,” Peggy says with a sigh, leaning back against the wall. “A Soviet HYDRA branch is bad enough, without him heading it.”

Steve turns to stare at her. “A _what?_ ”

“Oh dear,” she says. “We’ve a lot to catch you up on, don’t we?”

“But not here,” adds Bucky, glancing around. Their nearest neighbor still appears to be asleep, but that’s no assurance that they won’t be overheard.

“No, not here,” she agrees. “We’ll need someplace a bit more private for that.”

“I’ve got my own room,” says Steve, with a hopeful expression. “I can ask them to move Bucky there—there’s enough room for another bed.”

“Pretty sure those rooms are for officers, Steve,” Bucky points out.

Steve’s chin juts dangerously. “You’re my second in command, _and_ my next-of-kin. And anyway, if I can’t get my way about _this_ , then what the hell is Captain America good for?”

Bucky turns to Peggy for help, but she just shakes her head, smiling. “It _would_ be useful for the two of you to share a private room. _Very_ useful.”

“Surely he can debrief you without…” He trails off as she smirks at him, one eyebrow raised. “Oh. I… see your point. Yes. That would be… nice.”

“So that’s a yes?” Steve presses.

“If you can convince anybody to agree.”

“That’s no problem—I’ll go talk to that nurse over there.” He jumps to his feet, looking for all the world like a dog offered a walk—then stumbles and swears, catching himself on the bedpost.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asks in alarm. “Did you—”

“I’m fine,” Steve says, obviously lying through his teeth. “Sorry, I just—I sprained my knee when he knocked me down—I just—forgot I’m not supposed to put weight on it—”

“You _moron_ ,” says Bucky, relieved. “Shouldn’t you have crutches, or something?”

A slight blush works its way up Steve’s neck. “I… do. But they’re such a pain to use, and it’s not far from here to my room, so…”

“ _Steve._ ” He and Peggy speak at the same time, in matching tones of exasperation.

Steve looks slightly unnerved. “Okay, okay, I’ll use them from now on, I promise! But I’m going to talk to the nurse first.”

“Alright, just avoid—” Bucky breaks off, as Steve is already limping away, with surprising speed considering his injury.

“He moves fast when he wants to get out of a scolding,” Peggy observes.

Bucky narrows his eyes, watching as Steve makes a beeline for the uniformed woman on the other side of the ward. “That’s Betty, isn’t it.”

“Unfortunately.”

“She’ll never go for it.”

“You never know. Perhaps she just needs a different approach than yours.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my approach.”

“I didn’t say there was. You can’t charm everyone, darling.”

Bucky pouts, turning to watch as Steve gestures toward him and hunches his big shoulders like he’s trying to make himself small. It’s sort of funny, seeing as when Steve was _actually_ small, he spent all his time trying to seem bigger. Somehow, in the past couple years he seems to have finally gotten it through his head that there are more ways to solve problems than punching them. Then again, Steve has always fought with any weapon that came to hand; that used to mean bricks and garbage can lids, but now he’s added the mantle of Captain America to his arsenal.

“They’re coming back,” says Peggy.

“ _I’m_ not the one with a bad eye,” Bucky retorts. “I can see that for myself.”

Peggy opens her mouth to answer, then shuts it as Steve and Betty approach them. Bucky attempts a winsome smile.

“Hi, Betty.”

“Sergeant Barnes,” she says coolly. “Captain Rogers here has asked that you be moved to his room. Is that what you want?”

Bucky nods. “Yes, ma’am. I was worried he’d gotten himself killed until he showed up here, and I’d be grateful to be able to keep an eye on him so he doesn’t re-injure himself.”

The corners of her mouth quiver in the shadow of a smile. “Funny, that’s what he said about you.”

“Well, that’s also true,” he acknowledges.

“I know it’s a little unusual,” Steve says to her, giving her the wide-eyed look that Bucky’s always had great difficulty denying. “But he’s my best friend, ma’am, and my second in command, and as long as there aren’t any officers who need the space…”

To Bucky’s surprise, Betty visibly softens.

“Well, I’ll see what I can do,” she says. “It’s not my decision, mind.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” says Steve earnestly, and the nurse gives him an honest-to-God _smile._

“That’s alright. Just you sit tight and rest that leg, Captain. I’ll be back shortly.”

“Thank you,” he repeats, and she actually pats him on the shoulder before bustling off.

Bucky turns on Steve the minute she’s out of earshot. “What the hell,” he says. “I’ve been working on her for _days_ , Rogers, and not one smile!”

Steve appears to be trying, unsuccessfully, not to look smug. “Guess I just got lucky.”

“It’s because he does the whole bashful routine,” says Peggy knowingly. “He goes all stammery and bites his lip, and does those big hopeful eyes.”

“I don’t do it on _purpose_ ,” says Steve. “Women just make me nervous.”

She pats his cheek condescendingly. “I know; that’s what’s so endearing about it.”

“It sure never worked when he was small,” Bucky says grumpily. “Except on old ladies.”

“That nurse is about fifty, Buck. Pretty sure that’s still holding true.”

“How dare you imply she’s old?” says Bucky, in mock indignation. “That’s the woman who stole my heart, Steve, and here you are suggesting she’s not in her prime—"

“I take it back,” says Peggy, rolling her eyes. “I imagine the poor woman would have relented in any case, just to get the two of you out of her ward.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "With or Without You", by U2.   
> I rewrote this chapter several times; I hope you guys like it!  
> 12th General Hospital was one of the fixed hospitals stationed in Livorno in spring of 1945. Bucky is in the ward of the 33rd General Hospital.


	7. In Our Private Universe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! This chapter was a struggle.  
> I appreciate all your comments!

_No time, no place to talk about the weather  
Promise of love is hard to ignore  
You said the chance wasn't getting any better  
Labour of love is ours to endure  
_ _….  
I will run for shelter  
Endless summer, lift the curse  
It feels like nothing matters  
In our private universe_

_— “Private Universe”, Crowded House_

As usual, Steve gets his way: about twenty minutes after he talks with Betty, a couple of orderlies show up.

“Captain Rogers, we’re here to assist you and Sergeant Barnes to your room,” says the taller of the two, a lanky young man with bright red hair.

“Thanks, but I don’t need any assistance—” Steve starts, but Bucky cuts him off.

“Captain Rogers sprained his knee, and would appreciate a crutch so he can walk to his room.”

The man looks between them uncertainly, but Bucky’s steely expression seems to decide him. “I’ll fetch a crutch, then. Um—ma’am, would you be Agent Carter?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a phone call for you—I can show you to the telephone.”

Peggy straightens her shoulders, and Bucky’s pretty sure he and Steve are the only ones who might guess her nervousness from the firm set of her mouth, the slight lift of her chin; her voice is brisk and business-like as she says, “Thank you. I’ll follow you.”

“I don’t really need a crutch, Buck,” says Steve reproachfully. “It’s not that far to my room, and there’s no stairs.”

“You have a sprained knee, Steve. You shouldn’t have walked here without one in the first place. Isn’t that right?” he appeals to the remaining orderly, a stocky, dark-haired man with tanned skin.

“It _is_ best to avoid straining it further, Captain,” he says apologetically.

“There! You see?”

“Bu-uck,” complains Steve, but it’s in the drawn-out tone he uses when he knows he’s lost the argument.

Bucky grins, triumphant, and settles back on his pillows. “You can take it easy, for once in your life,” he tells him sternly. “And stop giving me gray hairs.”

“You don’t have any gray hairs.”

“Yeah, and that’s a goddamned miracle, with all the trouble you get into.”

The well-worn argument is interrupted by the return of the red-haired orderly, who fusses over Steve to a rather excessive degree before finally allowing him to lead the way, limping, back to his quarters, while the other man wheels Bucky’s bed.

There’s more fussing once they arrive in Steve’s room, a small but clean space with a view of the beach out the single window. The orderlies help Steve into his bed, despite his insistence that he doesn’t need help, and reposition the pillows under Bucky’s broken leg and behind his back. Then, finally, they leave, and Steve and Bucky are left blessedly alone.

The first thing Steve does is push his bed up against Bucky’s in the center of the room, then shift himself over so he can wrap his arm around Bucky’s shoulders.

“This okay? Not hurting you, am I?”

“Nah, I’m fine.” Bucky leans into his warmth, breathing in the rich, slightly salty scent of his skin, a familiar anchor beneath the smells of hospital soap and linen. It finally hits him that Steve is really _here_ , they’re together, they’re safe… his breath hitches, and he hides his face against Steve’s shirt.

“Buck? You okay?”

“Yeah, just… I’m just now realizing…” He swallows, glad that Steve can’t see his expression. “I thought I was never going to see you again.”

Steve’s breath hisses through his teeth, and he reaches for Bucky’s hand, squeezing a little too hard to be comfortable. “I know. I—I thought you were dead, Buck. I thought I’d lost you.” His voice trembles a little, and he presses his mouth to Bucky’s hair, then his forehead. “I don’t ever want to go through that again.”

“Well, you won’t have to,” Bucky says, struggling to keep the bitterness from his tone. “They’re probably gonna send me on the next boat home.”

Steve hesitates, thumb tracing patterns over Bucky’s hand. “You’ve earned a rest, Buck,” he says after a moment.

“It’s not that, it’s…” He sighs, turning his head a little so he can look at Steve. “How can I go, if you and Peg are still here?”

Steve’s mouth tightens, but he doesn’t say anything. They both know it’s not up to him; and the likelihood of _Steve_ getting sent home is small, injured eye or no.

The silence flows around them, and Bucky finds himself unconsciously matching his breathing to Steve’s; for the first time in weeks, he finds himself truly relaxing without the aid of morphine.

“I didn’t even ask about the Howlies yet,” he says eventually. “Is everyone okay?”

“More or less. Morita sprained his wrist throwing my shield to me, and Monty broke his nose—nothing that won’t mend.”

“You’re all a bunch of reckless idiots,” Bucky grumbles, but he’s too relieved to get very worked up about it. “Where are they, anyway? I’d’ve thought they’d be hanging around my bedside, shedding salty tears—or yours, for that matter.”

“They’re not here.”

“Obviously.”

Steve makes a face. “I mean, I think they’re back in Florence, but, uh, there were a bunch of agents who were checking out the base and dealing with prisoners and whatnot when I left. Stark actually flew me straight here once the fight was over, so—I know they’re all okay, but I haven’t heard where they are right now. What about Dugan? I thought he’d be with you.”

“He was, but he went to find out what had happened to you. There were rumors going around that—well. We were worried. And we heard some of our guys were at 12th General, so…”

“I see.”

“Yeah.” Bucky fiddles with the button of Steve’s shirt, a little of his anxiety filtering back in. “Uh—there’s probably, you should probably know that… Dugan… well, he saw Peggy kiss me.”

Steve stiffens. “He what? Does he—what did he say?”

“He was pretty mad at first,” Bucky admits. “He thought we were cheating on you. But then… I told him you and I were both, um, dating Peg, and it was your idea, and… he seems alright about it now. I asked him not to spread it around, and I don’t think he’s going to. But if he… if he mentions it to you…”

“I’ll play along, sure,” says Steve, relaxing a bit. “He doesn’t know about the two of us, does he?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay. We can work with that.” He kisses Bucky’s forehead again. “It’ll be alright, pal.”

“Be better if you kissed me properly,” says Bucky, and feels Steve smile against his skin.

“Hmm. I think that could be arranged.” He takes his sweet time about it though, kissing Bucky’s cheeks, his eyes, and the tip of his nose before taking Bucky’s mouth at last.

He kisses him gently, slowly, like they’ve got all the time in the world, fitting his lips to Bucky’s over and over as though relearning the shape of them. When Bucky opens his mouth in invitation, Steve makes a soft, nearly inaudible wanting sound and follows his lead. Bucky closes his eyes, trying to memorize every part of this—the heat of Steve’s mouth and the curl of his tongue, the hardness of his jaw and the way his fingers play restlessly over Bucky’s hair. He wants this, all of this, wants never to stop—wants the feeling of Steve bending over him, his arm around him, enveloping him, keeping him safe.

They’re interrupted by a knock on the door.

Bucky hastily pulls away, ribs protesting at the sudden movement, and Steve quickly removes his arm from around Bucky’s shoulders. Before they can straighten themselves out any further, the door swings open.

For one heart-stopping moment, Bucky thinks this is it, they’ve been caught, he’s going to be blue-carded for the stupidest mistake he could have made—and then Peggy enters, eyes flitting over them in quick assessment before she hastily shuts the door behind her.

“If you’re going to be indecent, you ought to at least lock the door,” she says, folding her arms. “What if I was the doctor?”

Bucky exhales shakily, running his hand through his hair. “Sorry. We weren’t—thinking.”

“Well, it was you, so no harm done,” says Steve, unabashed.

She gives him an unimpressed look. “You need to be more careful. Do I need to remind you of what could happen if you—if we— get caught?”

“No.” Bucky’s heart is still pounding a staccato against his ribcage. “No, we’ll remember.”

“We’ll be more careful,” says Steve, more serious now. “Promise.”

“Good.” She slides the bolt home, and walks to the end of Steve’s bed, sitting down to remove her shoes. “I’m not sorry to have a room to ourselves,” she admits with a sigh. “Even if it’s going to be a damned nuisance to get in here without anyone making awkward observations.”

“It’ll be alright, Peg,” he says, reaching for her.

“It had better be.” Her voice is stern, but she gives him her hand anyway, and softens a little when he kisses it.

“Is everything alright, Pegs?” Bucky asks, as she settles herself against Steve’s other side. “You seem a little tense.”

“You’d be tense too, if you had to deal with a pair of reckless idiots who don’t know the meaning of subtlety,” she retorts.

Bucky frowns at her, taking in the tension in her shoulders, the way she’s huddled up against Steve like a turtle retreating into its shell. “Was it the phone call?”

Peggy scowls back. “I wish you didn’t have to be so bloody perceptive all the time.”

“Bad news?” asks Steve gently.

“No… I don’t know. Not exactly.” She heaves a sigh. “It was Phillips. He’s not too happy with me. With you either, but you didn’t go AWOL, and I didn’t kill Red Skull, so.”

“I didn’t kill him either,” he points out. “And it’s not AWOL if I gave you the order—that was the whole point.”

“You know as well as I do that you’re not really in my chain of command. I knew what I was risking when I went, but…”

“Peggy, he’s not—he’s not going to demote you?” asks Steve in alarm.

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. He said he’ll deal with us when he gets back to London.”

“You saved me,” says Bucky, low and angry. “You saved me, and you found out about the Soviet HYDRA branch—he should be patting you on the back, not—”

“I knew the risk,” she says quietly. “And I’d do it again, in a heartbeat. Even if he sends me packing, it was worth it.”

“He won’t,” says Steve, with more confidence than Bucky thinks the situation really deserves. “You know Phillips’s bark is worse than his bite. You’re too valuable to lose—this mission proves that, if anything. He’ll come ‘round, you’ll see.”

“I hope so,” she says, with another sigh, and shifts around to draw Steve’s blanket over her lap. “Anyway, I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see.”

Steve gives her a squeeze. “It’ll be okay,” he repeats.

“Mm. So you keep saying.”

There’s a pause.

“Did he say anything about the Howlies?” Bucky asks after a moment.

“Oh—yes. I meant to tell you, they’re arriving here tonight, so we can get the first ship for England in the morning. Phillips wants the documents we recovered back at headquarters as soon as possible—and the two of you somewhere secure. HYDRA could still make a play, especially if they’ve got support from the Soviets.”

Steve’s arm tightens around Bucky’s shoulders possessively. “If they even try to lay a finger on him again, I’ll kill them all,” he growls.

“Which is why we’re going back to London,” she responds, with exaggerated patience. “Honestly, it’s like you don’t even listen.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything; the idea that HYDRA is still out there, waiting to get him back into their clutches, is terrifying.

“I think they knew who he was,” Peggy continues. “In the radio log, it looked like they’d notified someone of his capture. I don’t know whether they knew he was enhanced, but—”

“They did,” Bucky says. His throat is very dry. “One of them spoke to me in English. Said something about me being hard to kill. And then he said—he said the Red Army might find a use for me. Or, well, I think that’s what he meant. He said the ‘Red Room’.”

“So they knew,” says Steve bleakly. “I wonder how?”

There’s a short pause. Then Peggy says slowly, “Zola was sure you weren’t dead.”

Bucky can’t help flinching at the name, and Steve squeezes him again, as though he can keep him from harm if he just holds him tight enough.

“But he can’t possibly have communicated with them, can he?” he asks. “I mean, we captured him right after Bucky fell, and he was under guard the whole time after that—he’s locked up back in London, they took him straight there after Phillips finished interrogating him.”

Peggy purses her lips, a worried line between her brows. “I don’t know,” she says. “I’d say it’s impossible, but HYDRA has done so many seemingly impossible things…”

“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” says Steve firmly. He meets Bucky’s eyes, chin lifted in familiar determination. “HYDRA, Zola, all of it. We won’t let them hurt you again, Buck.”

Bucky tries to feel reassured by this, and fails. It’s one thing to think he’s just had the sort of deadly bad luck that often occurs in a war zone; it’s another thing entirely to think that someone is out to get him, personally. He remembers Zola’s weirdly proprietary air, the avid way in which he’d watched Bucky’s reactions to every new torture, his delight in what he’d referred to as Bucky’s “progress”. Had Zola been planning to recapture him, all along? Had that train been a trap, not just for Steve, but for _him_?

“We’ll keep you safe, Bucky,” Peggy says, patting his hand. “I promise.”

The very idea of safety seems laughable, as out of reach as Saturn’s rings—and yet, somehow, he believes her. She and Steve have shown, now, just how far they’ll go to protect him, and Peggy doesn’t make promises she can’t keep. If anyone can keep him out of HYDRA’s clutches, it’s the two of them.

He lets out a breath, and leans his head against Steve’s shoulder. “Yeah," he says. "I know you will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Private Universe" by Crowded House.


End file.
